


All I Wish Not To Remember

by thealmightyavocado



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Angst, Gun Violence, Love Triangles, M/M, Revenge, Slow Burn, The Count of Monte Cristo Adaption, Tragedy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-24 01:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 71,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6136894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealmightyavocado/pseuds/thealmightyavocado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/>
</p>
<p>What happens when all you had, all you loved, all you held dear is viciously ripped away from you? When your inner core, once filled with love and hope and light, blackens to raw, dark hatred?</p>
<p>What happens when your soul is hopelessly consumed and no matter how hard you try, no matter how hard you attempt to shake yourself out, to rid your tormented mind of the opaque feelings that plague you, all you can see, all you can feel, all you can want is...</p>
<p>Revenge. </p>
<hr/>
<p><em>A modern adaption of The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas</em><br/> <br/><em>A tragic tale of timeless undying love, merciless revenge, and selfless sacrifice.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> hi!!
> 
> Alright...so I've been wanting to write this forever, as The Count of Monte Cristo is my absolute all time favorite literary classic. It just touches me every time idk, but anyway I promised myself I'd write it if i could figure out all the heavy dynamics and I did so here we aaaare.
> 
> Obviously changes were made from the original story to modernize it and fit the dynamics of the characters, there is also a twist deviating from the original. (because you know...gotta spice it up) 
> 
> This is written in a way where you won't have all the variables straight out, not in a mystery kind of way but in an deductive reasoning kind of way, where you are gradually putting pieces together over the Seven Acts.  
> Not everything will immediately make sense or have reason, but by the end, the very end, all the variables should piece together and you’ll have a full picture. Also, just for reference I guess, it's written in present tense, and all flashbacks and memories are in past tense.
> 
> !!!!! DISCLAIMER DISCLAIMER DISCLAIMER X100000 !!!!  
> The story and characters portrayed in this fic are purely fictional. I am strongly an OT5 supporter, I love each of them and the opinions and plights of their characters in the story is no indication of my own feelings towards them in any way whatsoever.  
> This fic is poorly tagged, and purposefully so, as not to hinder the integrity and element of surprise of the story. There will be some unhappy themes and unfortunate circumstances, unsettling descriptions, dark thoughts, and multiple accounts of death. If you find any of those topics troubling, I suggest that you not read this. Like please, don't trouble yourself.
> 
> So yes...please just forgive me in advance and you are always welcome to scream at me on tumblr [@avocadolouie](http://avocadolouie.tumblr.com)
> 
> oh! and I will update with one act every single week over the next seven weeks :)
> 
> **Translations (Thank you to all the lovely translators out there)  
> [Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5100592)

** Act I **

_“Who knows? Perhaps your love will make me forget all I wish not to remember.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_  

* * *

 

How many seconds does it take for a life to end? How many minutes must be exhausted to drive the pain so deep within, to the very core. How many hours are needed until the noxiousness of insufferable poison overtakes the mind? How many days until everything that ever mattered, fades to worthless dust? How many weeks until all is forgotten, all is disremembered, no longer given even a sideways glance? And how many years does it take for a once loving heart to be hardened into raw, unadulterated _hate_.

A hate so strong, so pure, that it overpowers everything. Overpowers the senses, overpowers the body, overpowers logic and sanity, forsakes that of wisdom and compassion, and fuels the mind with welcome toxicity.

Harry knows that hate. He knows that unbearable feeling of loathing all too well. In fact, at this point of his life, that is all he knows. All his mind can process; all his brain keeps reverberating back to like a moth drawn to a much needed, unavoidable flame.

As Harry sits, his hardly clothed, mutilated back curled up against a cold stone wall, as his grimy bare feet dig into the dirt ground beneath him, as his heavy tired head lulls to the side desolately, he dwells on his hatred, meditates on the profound acrimony within himself.

These four walls, four cold stone walls, not wide in diameter or vast in width, having only the light the creeps in from the lone barred window near the ceiling, have become his home. Not much of a home, in the true sense of the word, but more of a hellish dwelling he is dismally confined to, indefinitely. With mildew droplets trickling from the rusted rooftop, and the pungent smell of drying blood plaguing the air, despair and suffering palpably thick in the atmosphere, this place can be nothing but a nightmare, nothing but hell.

It all started ten years ago. The unfortunate series of events that cascaded downhill in Harry’s life, eternally etched into his acrimonious mind, never to be forgotten, never to be elapsed from his scarred memory.

Ten years ago.

The downfall of his hopeless life may have began ten years ago, but Harry can remember it all so clearly, still see it all so clearly, still hear it so clearly, as if it began ten minutes ago.

“I'll miss you.” Louis had whispered softly against Harry’s cheek.

“I'll miss you too.” Harry answered, burying his head in the warmth of Louis’ neck. “But it's only for the summer. I'll be back before you know it. I promise.” 

They stood wrapped up in each other’s arms at a private gate at Heathrow airport in London. Harry was all set to fly off to California for an internship at Blackstone Trust LP, a multimillion investment firm, accompanied by his best friend, Zayn. As it so happened, Zayn’s father owned the company, and his family had made all the arrangements and accommodations for their exciting internship summer together.

“That doesn’t matter.” Louis sighed, pouting his lips slightly. “What am I supposed to do for a whole summer? I’ll probably drive myself mad with sheer boredom.”

Even at the young ages of eighteen and twenty, Harry and Louis couldn’t have been more codependent if they tried. Not wanting to ever be too far from one another, not able to bear the strain of distance. They’ve known each other practically their whole lives it seemed, destined to be friends, untimely fated to fall hopelessly for each other.

“I wish I had something to give you to remember me by.” Harry mumbled, pulling back to meet Louis’ eyes.

“You think I’m going to completely forget you over a summer!?” Louis gasped theatrically, a single hand flying to touch his chest. “Harold, babe, you wound me. I’m not that forgetful.”

“Of course not.” Harry giggled, pressing his lips to the tip of Louis’ nose. “But still…it’s the thought, Lou.”

“I love you, and you love me so…isn’t that all that matters really?”

“Mmm, maybe.” Harry hummed, holding his own hand out to Louis. “Here give me your hand.”

Louis presented his right hand silently, offering it to Harry.

“No, no!” Harry shook his head, grinning to himself. “Your other hand, babe.”

Louis smiled fondly, exchanging his extended hands. “Here, love.”

Harry yanked a stray thread from the hem of his oversized brown jumper, tying it in a perfect knot around Louis’ left ring finger.

“There.” Harry grinned, extremely pleased with himself. “So we'll always be tied to each other.” 

“Oh my god! You're such a sap! That is so beyond corny!” Louis giggled loudly, looking at the tan thread coiled in a knot around his ring finger. “I can’t believe you just said that out loud and then proceeded to tie a shitty string around my finger with absolutely no shame whatsoever!”

“Fine, Louis.” Harry huffed, crossing his arms across his chest defensively. “Don't wear it, whatever.”

“No, wait love, don’t be like that.” Louis laughed, grabbing hold of Harry’s hand. “I’m just curious as to how am I going to explain why I have a random string tied about my ring finger.”

“It’s not random if it has meaning.” Harry grumbled petulantly, furrowing his eyebrows together.

“Alright, alright…I’ll wear it! God!” Louis sighed dramatically, smoothing his fingers over the deep undulation of Harry’s brow. “Stop frowning, you’ll get wrinkles long before your time. And I refuse to be with someone who has a prune face.” Louis teased, moving his fingers from Harry’s brow to caress his cheek. “Even if it is a cute prune face.”

A wide smile slowly spread across Harry’s face, eye lightening up. “You’ll wear it?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Louis rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “I’ll wear the damn string from your jumper and it’ll never leave my finger.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise, love. I promise.” Louis repeated, using his right hand to properly position the twine ring at the base of his finger. “No matter what happens, you’ll never see it off my finger.”

“Harry, come on mate! The jet is ready to go and I want to land at a reasonable time in L.A.” Zayn strolled over to Harry and Louis, slinging his arms over each of their shoulders. “It’s only three months boys, don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’ll be fucking dramatic if I want to.” Louis pinched Zayn sides playfully, wrapping an arm around his waist. “You’re not the one that is being left to fend for themselves.”

The three of them had been friends for ages, as tight knit as they come. After the unfortunate passing of Harry’s family from a catastrophic car accident when he was only ten-years-old, Zayn’s family took him in. Harry’s father was a dear old friend of Zayn’s father, so they embraced him without a seconds thought, essentially adopting him. Harry was always at Zayn’s estate anyway and the Maliks were by no means wanting for money, far from it in fact. The Malik family had a true legacy, a high level of class, rooted in abundant wealth and insane riches.

Harry and Zayn were brothers from the start, always linked and side by side; inseparable and close as ever, bound together by a bond that surpassed blood, overruled true familial kinship. There was absolutely nothing that came between them.

That was until…Louis came along.

Louis was a misfit, a conundrum really. He was paradoxically of extraordinary wealth, but acted as though he had not a penny to his name, avoiding the prestige and affluence at all costs. Louis came barreling into the private academy Zayn and Harry were enrolled in, causing trouble, gaining attention and reeking havoc.

For some odd reason, Louis instantly clicked with the likes of Harry and Zayn, drawn to them both for different reasons. Zayn and Louis had much in common, both sharing sentiments about the prisons and idiocy of the rich, both trying so desperately to be menaces in their twisted high class societies, forever ride-or-die troublemakers at heart.  

While Harry on the opposite spectrum, well…Harry fell for Louis instantly. He was enraptured by Louis’ boldness and driven tenacity, enthralled by his audacious persona and witty humor. Harry didn't know what love was, how could he at such an adolescent and extremely young age when they met? All he knew was that he was held captive by Louis’ attention, that he was hopelessly spellbound by his charm, that he would do anything for Louis if he simply asked.

And Louis soon felt the same towards Harry, endeared by his innocence and charismatic fledgling awkwardness. Truly, they shouldn't have fallen for each other, opposites in almost every way, from two completely different worlds, two extremes on the spectrum, two contrasting poles of magnetism.

Louis came from everything, same as Zayn, but Harry came from nothing, ironically thrown into their posh and privileged world by chance, by a tragic freak accident.

Despite all that, despite their opposing backgrounds and their contradictory heritages, and despite the incompatible difference in the value of their last names, they gave into their unforeseen pull towards each other. Harry and Louis gave in to the mutual feelings they shared, casting Zayn as the third wheel to all their adventures together.

And adventures they had. The three of them grew more inextricable day by day, undividable and thick as thieves.

“Why you both refuse to take me along, is beyond me.” Louis scuffed, casting his eyes back against their sockets dramatically. “It’s bloody rude.”

“Um…maybe because you have literally no interest in business or marketing or accounting or anything else besides writing.” Harry reminded, grinning fondly at Louis. “Which is fine, of course…lovely even.”

Louis pompously tilted his head up, jutting his chin out. “A sound writer cares not for the desires of modern man, my soul isn't sourced with money or riches or even positions of power, only by priceless, invaluable librettos.”

“Always speaking in riddles and poems.” Zayn chuckled, eyes crinkling in a sincere smile as he squeezed Louis’ side. “Absolutely brilliant.”

 “Limerick is my native tongue.” Louis grinned proudly. “And a true writer can compose artful masterpieces anywhere, whether that be here in England or in America. You both are just trying to get rid of me.”

“Not true.” Harry shook his head, disagreeing. “You’re just a distraction, babe.”  

“Ready when you are, boys.” The pilot stepped from the door of the private jet, standing at the top of the stairs, beckoning them with the wave of his hand.

“Well…bye, Lou.” Zayn kissed Louis’ cheek, hugging him close before letting go. “Don’t die without me.”

“I’ll try.” Louis smiled, winking at Zayn as he started to climb the stairs, boarding the plane.

Harry pulled Louis in his arms once more, encircling his arms closely around Louis’ middle. Louis cupped his hands against Harry’s cheeks, drawing his face close to affectionately brush their lips together.

“Bye Haz.” Louis mumbled against Harry’s mouth.

“Live as though I’m with you always.” Harry whispered against Louis ear. It was something he always said, whether apart for an hour or a day, weeks or even months, just a simple comforting reminder, an assurance. It was never a goodbye statement, but more of an unbroken promise between them.

“Always.” Louis answered softly in response as he usually does.

Harry broke away from Louis, slowly following Zayn into the belly of the aircraft, blowing Louis small a kiss goodbye before the doors were shut and they proceeded to take off.

That summer, Harry and Zayn had an exciting and progressive time working at together at Blackstone Trust, learning and exploring the vast ways of business and finance.

That summer everything went according to plan…until it didn’t. That summer was actually only the beginning of the end.

“Zayn!” Harry shouted, bursting hurriedly through the door of his and Zayn’s shared summer home, tripping over his own feet into the dark shadows of the room.

“Yeah bro, I'm in the den!” Zayn called distantly from another room, light glowing around the corner. “What is it?” 

Harry followed the sound of Zayn’s voice through the luxurious apartment, stumbling across the hard wood floors towards the flowing luminescence in the distance.

“Where have you been, anyway?” Zayn asked, distractedly. “It's almost nine.” 

“I was...I…” Harry huffed, out of breath, as he reached Zayn, seated on a couch in the den.

Zayn stood to his feet, frowning as he took in Harry’s distressed appearance.  “Have you been running or something, H? You’re so...winded.” 

“Yeah…” Harry leaned against his knees for a moment, trying to diffuse the ample amounts of adrenaline coursing through his oxygen deprived body. “I…I ran here.”

“Why?” Zayn frowned, stepping closer to Harry, voice sounding only partially concerned.

“Zayn, I...” Harry anxiously ran his shaking hands through his fringe. “Fuck!” 

“It's alright, H. It's alright.” Zayn comforted softly, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You're fine, just tell me what happened.”

“It's all illegal, Z.” Harry answered in a rushed unsteady breath. “Everything. All of it. It’s all fucking illegal!”

“What do you mean?” Zayn questions, face scrunched in confusion as he gazed at Harry’s wide eyes. 

“Uh…so…I was going over the accounts and everything…you know, like I always do…and it just…it wasn't adding up. None of it was adding up.” Harry started, righting his posture as he slowly began to gain control of his breathing. “And I shouldn't have seen it…there was no way I should have seen it but…it was all there in front of my eyes.”

“What?” Zayn asked at a loss for what Harry meant.

“It’s me. I mean…my name…” Harry trembled, voice shaky. “My name is on basically all the accounts and…and I...it looks like I'm stealing millions of dollars from the company! Me!” Harry emphasized, hands tossed in the air. “Like…shit! Fucking shit! I’m literally just a fucking intern and…and I don't know what to do and…I don't know what's happened…or why…and-”

“Shh shh, alright. It’s alright, H. We just have to think this through.” Zayn said, sounding oddly calm and at ease. “Am I the only the only person you've told?” 

“Yes, of course. You’re my best friend and I trust you over anyone else, so I came straight here. I figured you’d know what to do.” Harry replied honestly. “But…um…a man saw me…or he was there. Um…one of the higher ups…I think his name is Ben...he saw me and he saw the all files and the evidence…and…he threatened me and I...I mean...”

Zayn’s phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating incessantly against the sleek surface. Zayn’s face paled, color leaving his face before something flashed in his eyes, shrouded over his features.

“…I don’t know Zayn…maybe he has something to do with this. Or maybe…” Harry trailed off as he watched Zayn pick the phone up off of the counter. “Wait, what are you doing, Z? You're going to answer it now!? Harry questioned, voice panicked and skeptical. “Who is it?”

“I'm just...I'm...um…” Zayn stared down at the phone in his hand before looking up at Harry, expression torn and uncertain. He picked up the phone and held it to his ear, still staring at Harry. 

“Zayn!” Harry hissed disbelievingly.

“Yes.” Was all Zayn said into the speaker of his phone.

“Yes.”  Zayn responded again, after a drawn out pause, never once breaking eye contact with Harry as he spoke.

“Yes. He is here.”

Harry shook his head, completely confused and baffled as to what could possibly be going on. He didn't know what to think or what to do, his mind hadn't stopped racing since he left the shining doors of Blackstone, his heart hadn't stopped beating out of the confines of his rib cage. 

“Z, what is going on? Who was that?” Harry asked worriedly as Zayn dropped the phone back down on the stainless steel countertop. 

Zayn remained wordless just gazing at Harry with a peculiar stunned expression. If Harry had to describe the look in Zayn’s eyes at that moment, he would say that what he saw in the amber sienna of Zayn’s irises, was a haunting mix of determination, betrayal, and a slight twinge of remorse. 

“I'm sorry, H.” Zayn whispered suddenly, staring blankly at Harry.

Harry was just about to ask him what for? Ask him what he meant by that and why? But then all of a sudden, a swarm of L.A. police, uniform clad and weaponry armed, came barreling through the door, completely unannounced and seemingly uncalled for.

“Zayn?”

“Harry Styles.” An officer addressed him officially, voice even and stern. “You are under arrest on the account of suspected embezzlement and misappropriation of enterprise funds allotted to Blackstone Trust Limited Partnership.”

“What?!” Harry shouted, flinching away from the police officer, shuffling back on his feet. “I didn’t do anything! Zayn, tell them I didn’t do anything!”

Zayn remained deathly silent, stare blank and almost impassive. Cold. Expressionless.

“Zayn!” Harry yelled again, still moving away from the officers looming towards him. “Tell them I’m innocent!”

“I'm sorry.” Zayn repeated, looking away from Harry as the officer stepped closer to him.

“Sir, you have the right to remain silent.” The officer said, pulling out a silver pair of metal handcuffs. “Anything you say, can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“I’m fucking innocent! I didn’t do anything I swear! I’m just an intern!” Harry screamed, tone panicked and scared. “Zayn, please!”

“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.” The officer continued, unbothered by Harry’s pleas.

“Z, please!” Harry begged as his hands were forcibly cuffed behind his back.

The officer continued on with the recitation of The Miranda Rights. “Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

“I would never steal anything! I swear! I’m only eighteen! I didn’t take the money!” Harry tried, repeatedly denying the accusations being held against him.

“Just save it for the interrogation, kid.” The officer scuffed, tugging at Harry’s bound hands.

“Why?” Harry questioned softly towards his best friend, his brother, eyes deeply confused. “How could you, Zayn?”

“It's complicated.” Zayn answered simply, gaze downcast.

“Complicated? Complicated?!” Harry shouted, voice escalating as they dragged him backwards. “How fucking complicated is it, Z!?” 

Zayn turned his back to Harry again, refusing to answer and refusing to watch as Harry was yanked by his arms out of the large apartment, feet stumbling along with the armed police officers.

Harry didn't know what was truly happening, but he knew he was being framed. For some reason, some unexplainable reason, Harry was being framed, wrongly arrested. And furthermore at the hands of his very own best friend, of his brother.

Nothing made sense. Not a single thing. Who would want to frame him? 

Objectively, he was a prefect target to frame, as he has no real wealth of his own, no real riches. To make Harry appear like he is stealing and embezzling money from the very company owned by his best friend’s father was almost believable, almost brilliant, but why? What did he do to deserve this? To be framed? 

The following weeks proceeded in a catastrophic blur, one doomed calamity after the next.

The only bright side was that he got to see Louis. Upon hearing the news of Harry’s incarceration, he flew from London to L.A., so that he could be there for Harry during the court trials.

But with every bright side, there must be an equal and opposite dark side. However, sometimes, as was in this case, the dark side far exceeded the severity and light of the bright side.

For what Harry didn’t know then was that, it would be the last time he would ever see Louis. If Harry had known, maybe he would have cherished it more. Maybe he would have stopped fighting everything, quit denying all the claims against him and just paused. Paused to commit to memory all the tiny beautiful details of Louis’ face, to further embed his welcome presence deep, deep within the very core of his soul.

Harry would have stopped everything, stopped playing into useless bullshit and unbeatable games he was fated to lose. He would have stopped and simply gazed into Louis’ heartbroken eyes and told him over and over and over again how much he loved him, how much he will always love him, no matter what.

“I'm innocent Lou.” Harry said through the prison glass, staring down at his bright colored inmate jumpsuit.

“I know you are, love. I know.” Louis answered softly from the other side, the barrier between them seeming infinite. “But…I love you, ok?”

Harry continued to gaze downward, head bowed, not strong enough to meet Louis’ emotive eyes.

“Haz…” Louis placed his left hand along the glass, the twine of the string on his finger hitting the surface gently. “Please just look at me.”

Slowly Harry lifted his heavy head, opaque sad eyes meeting Louis’ through the barrier. He remained silent, not having much to say. What could he really say that had not already been said?

“It’s going to be ok, Harry, I promise.” Louis encouraged, trying to sound strong. “Zayn said he is doing everything to get you out and-”

“Zayn?” Harry asked alarmed, voice elevating as his features twisted in aversion.

“Yeah, Zayn.” Louis shrugged, not seeming to think it was of any substantial worth. “I've been staying with him and he-”

“What the fuck!?” Harry burst out suddenly, unable to bit his tongue. “No!”

Louis frowned, expression deeply confused as he looked to Harry curiously. “What’s wrong, babe?”

“Louis, you can't trust him! You can’t trust Zayn! Stay away from him!”

“What? Harry, what do you mean?” Louis asked, not understanding. “You’re not making any sense. He’s your best friend and he’s trying to help you! Why wouldn’t I trust him? It’s Zayn!”

“Lou, you can't!” Harry emphasized again, pressing closer to the glass between them. “He’s not trying to help me; he’s lying to you!”

“But…I don’t understand Harry…” Louis shook his head at a loss. “Why would Zayn lie to me? He never…I mean, I kno-”

“Times up!” The prison guard shouted as a loud bell sounded across the visitor’s area.

“Louis, listen to me!” Harry rushed out, sounding panicked as he looked around behind his shoulder. “He did this. Zayn did this. I don't know why, but you have to believe me!”

“What?” Louis questioned breathlessly, utterly confused. “Harry, I-”

“Baby, you have to believe me!” Harry interrupted hurriedly, feeling a watery pressure building behind his eyes. “It’s the truth, I swear! You can’t…I mean…just…don’t…” Harry rambled wildly with wide terrified eyes, as a prison guard approached him. “Don’t listen to him!”

“Let’s go, inmate.” The guard said roughly, grabbing Harry by his upper arm and forcibly pulling him back into the prison, feet scuffing against the linoleum floor.

“No!” Harry screamed, struggling against the strength of the guard. He twisted his body and kicked his legs out, fighting against the force heaving him backwards. “No! Don’t trust him, Louis! Don’t!”

Harry continued to scream and kick, body thrashing, refusing to succumb willingly. A second guard immediately came to aid, grabbing hold of Harry’s jerking legs to strongly manhandle his body into submission.

“Harry, I love you!” Louis shouted, hand still pressed against the glass, watching on in horror as Harry was dragged away. “I love you, ok? I love you and it’s going to be alright! I promise it will all be alright!”

But it wasn’t alright, so so very far from alright. In fact, it only got worse.

Thinking back, it’s all a blur now, the harrowing events of the following days. The events that led to where he is now. In captivity.

In hell.

Harry can only remember pieces, shifted fragments here and there, each one clouded and foggy. One minute, he remembers being in a civilized county prison, confined to a clean jail cell, the next he remembers blood.

Blood everywhere.

Pooling darkly around his twitching body, staining his trembling pallid hands, leaching through the thick fabric of his jumpsuit.

He remembers the sensation of sharp, uneven metal twisting against the surface of his skin, he remembers his head lulling downwards heavily, glimpsing down to see in terror, his own stomach torn open in notched jagged lines, scarlet bodily fluid gushing from the gaping crevice of his abdominal cavity.

Harry remembers closing his eyes, his breathing slowing impossibly, his system shutting down to compensate for the immense trauma, for the amble amounts of physiological distress.

Everything went black. Everything went quiet. Everything was at peace.

At least for a moment.

But then Harry remembers jolting awake, gazing upon his bandaged limp body, strewn out in the back of a shitty old van, hands tied together behind his back, masking tape silencing his screaming lungs, which refused to be silenced.

Harry remembers riding in that crappy van for ages, every bump on the road causing his wounded body to throb in agony, the pulsation reverberating in excruciating waves over his distressed system.

Until eventually it stopped. The bumps, the movement, the van, the noise, it all stopped. And Harry remembers hardly having the strength to stand as he was dragged by the crook of his arm into a dingy stone building, a building he now only refers to as the pits of hell itself. They threw him into a dirty uncivilized cell and Harry thought it was the end. That maybe this was it, that he would now spend the rest of his life confined to these lonely stone walls. And that was partially true, just lacking one added bonus.

Torture.

Harry remembers being tied down to a harsh metal chair, masked faces and devilish whispers encompassing him from all corners. Soon the whispers turned to firm commands, then eventually earsplitting screams.

From there, Harry can only bear to recall it in flashes. It’s all hot traumatizing flashes.

Flashes of merciless torture, flashes of perpetrated suffering, flashes of never-ending insufferable affliction, all linked to lurid interrogating questions he had no answers for. Pestering Harry about things he had never heard of before, grilling him about account numbers and wire transfers, seeking answers and demanding explanations.

Harry remembers wanting to die as he felt searing burns rage against his skin, swift unforgiving blades slice his flesh. As he endured the sensation of taciturn water replace the fleeting air in his weak lungs, and charged electric current surge over his nervous system as he was prodded with gruesome spikes and persecuted relentlessly, ruthlessly.

He remembers his body being repeatedly ripped to unidentifiable shreds, only to be haphazardly strewn back together with messy staples or careless sloppy sutures, un-anesthetized, uninhibited.

Harry’s only hope was death. His only supplication in the haunting darkness was for it all to end. His only prayer was for his life to come to an abrupt and welcome close.

Harry watched on as other men's throats were slit, heard the raw ghastly sound of bones snapping like weak twigs and supposedly strong sockets being dislocated from their attached tendons. The associated audio always accompanied by ringing gunshots and unstoppable screams. Screams, always loud, piercing screams, leaking through the cold walls, echoing from the stone.

And oddly enough, as Harry listened on to those disparaging sounds day by day, he wished it were him. Oddly he wished to trade places with them. At least they were free now. They were gone, at peace. And Harry would give anything to be free, give anything to be finally at peace.

But they refused to let him go, they also refused to let him die. Of all the people who have come and gone, Harry is one of the select few who remains alive regardless. Regardless of what he says, regardless of all he’s denied, or lied, or begged for, he remains alive. Which is the worst and most confusing punishment of all because Harry wanted so desperately to die. To leave this earth that has wronged him so, to close his eyes and never wake up. 

Even now, after years, although the torture has subsided, all but faded away, they still will not let him go. Instead, Harry lives out his life, day by day, held hostage, held unfairly behind hell’s gates.

Days blend together, a blur of combined seconds to long minutes to tiring hours. Days running into weeks, which soon are months, then years. Years spent wasting away in a dingy, cold dark stoned walled confine, with nothing but the dirt beneath him and the stone walls surrounding him to keep Harry company.

That and his incessant thoughts.

His mind constantly wanders; with nothing but time to kill and years to waste, what else can he really do but think? Dwell upon the calamities of his disheartening miserable life.

Harry’s mind always comes back to the same thing in the end, though. After all hateful and vengeful thoughts have passed, after he spends hours brooding over all the people he hates, all the people he wants to destroy, he always comes back to his only solace.

Louis.

Harry rewinds the imagery of his long lost love in his head, holds tightly to it. He never wants to forget the curves of his hips or the dip of his collarbones, or the long swoop of his bowed eyelashes. He never wants to forget the comforting sound of Louis’ laugh, or the way his eyes crinkle around his beaming face. Harry never wants to forget what it was like to be loved by Louis or even what it was like to hear him say that he loved him.

The last thing Harry ever heard Louis shout was that he loved him. And that short little phrase. That little three-word expression, that they would throw around so casually before, tossing it out just as easily as calling a name, that short axiom that he had heard time and time again, he would now give anything to hear again.

But instead, all he can hear within the precincts of these cold, cold stone walls is suffering. Screams of torment, shrieks of pain. Nothing of love, of warmth, or comfort. Only a deep bone chilling cold. A cold that has penetrated even the far recesses of Harry’s soul, a cold that is digging its icy claws violently into his center, hardening his heart one piece at a time. 

Harry has nothing left. Nothing at all. Not that he ever had much to start off with, but now he can't even say he has his dignity or his pride or even his love. 

He is alone. Completely alone. And the only thing to comfort him is the hatred in his heart. The strong overpowering desire to seek penance for all the wrong done to him. To inflict pain on those who pained him, those who betrayed him. 

Without warning, seemingly without cause, Zayn, his brother, betrayed him. Stabbed him in the back and left him for dead. And for that, for that merciless act of perfidy, Harry will never forgive him, he will never let go.

Harry refuses.

 

* * *

 

Harry sits slumped against the wall, using a sharpened rock to carve Louis’ name along the stone. As he does this nearly every day, what was once just a simple faint line of letters is now a deeply etched carving, outlined recurrently into the stone wall. Harry goes over the letters repeatedly, going from _L_ to _O_ to _U_ to _I_ to _S_ and back again, as he listens to sound of water droplets falling from to shabby rooftop.

Completely undisturbed, Harry goes about his daily outlines unsuspectingly until he hears an unfamiliar noise. Over the past ten years he has grown accustomed to every sound, every anechoic peep that comes out of this place, he can identify each by name and this sound, this odd scraping sound, is peculiar and so very unaccustomed.

Suddenly from the center of his dirt cell, a head, or what Harry assumes is a head, emerges from the dusty soil, followed by a hand and a series of sputtering coughs.

The head, once fully above ground, begins to look around curiously at the surroundings. “Oh fuck me! Well this is just perfect! Just bloody perfect!” The voice attached to the head shouts disappointedly.

“What the fuck?” Harry inquires, not really shouting or anything, just genuinely perplexed by what he is witnessing. “Who are you?”

“Goddammit! I can't believe this!” The man shouts, pulling himself out of the dirt hole and safely into Harry’s stone cubicle. “What a fucking waste of time! I knew I should have double checked my calculations! Shit!” 

Harry stares in absolute shock, the whole experience boggling his mind. A fucking uninvited man just randomly popped up from underneath his cell in the middle of the day.

“Oh right! So sorry for the intrusion!” The man looks to Harry in apology, waving his hand. “Hello, I'm Liam!” 

“Where the fuck did you come from?” Harry asked, still seated against one of the walls.

“My cell is next door...I guess. Ugh, Shit!” Liam curses again, looking distraught. “I was attempting to dig out and under the outer wall and I was under the impression that I was working in the right direction but all this time I’ve apparently been digging the wrong way and now…here I am…in your cell.”

“Awkward.”

“Indeed.” Liam nods, huffing out an upset breath.

“How long have you been here?” Harry asks curiously.

“I've been here two years.” Liam sighs, looking about the room again. “I think your cell is bigger than mine, by the way…just an observation. I mean, not that that’s much to brag about or anything.”

“That's it?” Harry questions, sounding doubtful. “Just two years.”

“That it?!” Liam echoes in disbelief. “That's two years too many, mate! The second I could stand again after they were done beating me to a pulp, I set about planning to escape this shit show.”

“Escape?”

“Yes, escape!” Liam says obviously, looking to Harry curiously. “You've never tried to escape? How long have you been here, mate?”

Harry casts his heavy gaze to the stone wall, etched with small dashes, indicating the numerous years he has spent wasting away. “Ten years.” 

“Ten years?! Fuck!” Liam declares, baffled. “You've been here that many years and you haven't found a way to get out of here!? What have you been doing!?” 

“There are seventy-two thousand, five hundred and nineteen stones in my walls.” Harry recites slowly, tilting his head in contemplation. “I’ve spent my days counting them.”

“Mmm.” Liam considers, looking around at the walls surrounding them. “Well have you named them yet?”

“What?” Harry frowns, sitting up slightly from his drooping position on the dirt floor.

“Have you named the stones?” Liam repeats again, asking seriously. “I imagine if you are acquainted enough with them to know their number, you might as well give them each a name.” 

Harry cracks a small minor smile, probably the first time his facial muscles have been utilized in such a way in years. There is absolutely nothing here to smile about. “I'm Harry.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, Harry.” Liam nods courteously, an odd flash of recognition flickers over his features. “I'm sorry that it's under these circumstances. I'm sure it would have been much better to have met you like a civilized man in a civilized manner in a civilized place, but no matter here we are I suppose.” 

“Why are you here?” Harry wonders.

Liam stands from where he is sat near his dirt hole in the ground and goes over to sit next to Harry along the stone wall. “Can I be honest with you, Harry?”

“Who am I going to tell?” Harry lifts his hand and gestures to the empty dim space, looking up to the leaking ceiling. “My numerous friends, the stones?”

Liam chuckles, squinting his eyes in joking suspicion. “But…can you trust the stones?”

“They’ve yet to betray me.” Harry answers seriously, looking to the stone wall again.

“Fair enough, I guess.” Liam nods in understanding. “Well…first of all…I know who you are.” Liam confesses slowly. “Or actually…I know of you.”

Harry twists his head to look at Liam with deep confusion, expression perplexed. “What?”

“Styles.” Liam says simply. “You’re Harry Styles, right?”

“Um…yes…”

“Thought so.” Liam nods slowly, looking up in astonishment. “Wow…I can’t believe…that I mean…I had no idea you’d be here.”

Harry furrows his brow together. “What does that mean?”

“Ten years ago you were convicted for embezzlement against Blackstone Trust and then incarcerated briefly in L.A. County, but then it was announced that you were found dead.”

Harry’s frown deepens still, even more bewildered. “How do you know that?”

“Well…um…without going into too much detail…I’m an agent.” Liam further confesses, meeting Harry’s eyes. “I’ve been undercover working the case. After you were convicted, most of the authorities backed off, exonerating Blackstone from all other alleged embezzlement claims, as they were all attributed to you. But we had reason to believe that there was still fraudulent activity going on within the company.”

Harry remains silent as he listens to Liam, mind whirling with unasked questions.

“My partner Niall and I have been pretty deep undercover for the past five years at Blackstone.” Liam continues in explanation. “Well…I’m not anymore, obviously, but he still is. We were making solid headway in exposing the whole operation, the whole brilliantly thought out Ponzi scheme. But I got nabbed, not by the authorities, but by the Blackstone execs. Similar to you I was accused of harboring stolen funds, my family is actually very wealthy but…that’s besides the point. These people who are holding us hostage are under the impression that we have their money, the money that was actually fraudulently laundered by Blackstone executives.”

Harry shrugs indifferently. “Well I figured that…you know…with all the torture and questions and shit.”

“Really, the only reason we are here, and that we are still alive, is because these people seem to think we have some sort of tie to their money.” Liam further explains. “We have some kind of intrinsic value, I guess. A way, in their eyes, to possible recover their money.”

“I don’t know shit about their money.” Harry replies apathetically. He swears he has said that exact same sentence nearly a million times in his wretched life, it hardly has meaning anymore. For so long he has been blindly foolish, naïve to the calamities of the world, to the ugly power struggle, to the twisted hunger for money and conceited gain. “I knew nothing when I got here and I know nothing now. All I do know is that I hate everything and I hate everyone who put me here.”

“No use sitting here dwelling on hate my new friend.” Liam advises positively. “Better to get up and do something about it.”

“Do what Liam?” Harry inquires bitterly, expression hardened and tired. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not…but we aren’t really in a position to do much of anything.”

“Oh…but we are.” Liam counters, lifting a suggestive eyebrow.

Harry just stares at Liam blankly, frown deeply etched across his features, completely unamused.

“We can escape.” Liam announces, clapping his hands together.

Harry collapses his head against his knees and chuckles acerbically, body shaking heavily and uncontrollable, his pained laughter indistinguishable from the sounds of tearful crying. Harry can’t really tell if he’s laughing because Liam’s notion is absolutely preposterous or crying because there is not an ice cube’s chance in hell that he’ll ever get out here.

“Yes! I’m serious Harry! It’s really not that difficult, and I figure if we work together, maximizing our efforts, we can dig out of here in about a year give or take and-”

“A year!” Harry snickers sardonically, rudely interrupting Liam’s plans. Who does this man think he is? How does he expect them to actually escape this place? Especially when Liam has supposedly been trying to escape for the past two years and look where that got him. Nowhere.

“Um…I’m sorry?’ Liam frowns, face twisting. “Do you have something better to do over the next year? Counting stones perhaps? Do you have some kind of pressing engagement taking up your time? Some appointment that hinders you from working to escape this hellhole?”

“Well...I-”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” Liam answers for Harry readily. “Look mate, we can get the fuck out of here. We can…and then we can take down all the sons of bitches who put us here in the first place.”

There is nothing that Harry wants more than to see Louis again… Second to that, Harry wants very very _very_ much to annihilate that contemptible cooperation and finally end Zayn.

“What do you say Harry? Ready to get out?” Liam questions. “I mean, what can it hurt anyway? Time is going on regardless, might as well try.”

Liam does have a point there. It’s not like his life has much current value sitting in dirt all day, either counting stones or carving Louis’ name across the wall. What does he really have to lose at this point? The worst that could happen to him is that he could die…and honestly, who the fuck cares? Harry has been ready to die for years now.

“Fine.” Harry huffs heavily, lulling back his head.

“Fantastic!” Liam claps again, standing to his feet. “We will start in the morning!”

 

* * *

 

Days go by, as they always did, but not nearly as slow as before with Liam around. Harry comes to genuinely appreciate Liam, valuing his companionship and always present company.

The slot to their cells opens twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening. They work through the day, digging without assumption of their captors, hiding the dirt in either their toilet bucket or food plate, sliding it under the small slot in the door, come morning and night.

As they dig, further and further beneath the grounds, Harry and Liam become better and better friends, real friends, learning more and more about each other as time goes on.

Liam is wise beyond his years. Although he is young, nearly thirty now, same as Harry, the countless experiences and undertakings Liam has had in his life, have caused him to see the world in a completely different light than Harry.

Harry learns much from Liam over the next year. Liam has views on existence that Harry has never really thought of, deeply philosophical and even profound. They have many in-depth discussions over the spanning months, debating theories and contradicting doctrines of logic, morality and ethics. From each thought-provoking topic and stimulating tenet, something is learned, concepts are made clear. Harry gleans everything Liam has to offer, stowing his astute words away, slowly developing his own sentiments and opinions on matters and conceptions of life.

Admittedly, Harry never really did before, he never really took the time to come to his own conclusion about things, just held and understood everything at face value. But Liam causes him to think, to dig deep within himself and ponder ideas that maybe Harry was too afraid to before. Harry comes to not only understand his situation better, or even the world better, but more importantly, himself.

“What will you do if we pull this off tonight?” Liam asks curiously, as they sit along the wall counting down the minutes until it is time to execute their plan, utilizing the tunnel they have been digging for the past year. “If we actually get out?”

“Find Louis.” Harry replies instantly, not wasting a single moment’s breath.

“And then what?” 

“Then take down all the people involved in my framed conviction, obviously.” Harry replies, as if the answer to that question has long been discussed.

“How?” Liam continues to question.

“I don’t know. I don’t care, Liam.” Harry puffs heavily, wringing his filthy hands together against his drawn up knees. “All I know is that I’ve spent the past eleven years in captivity, rotting away, being tortured and abused with all semblance of dignity stripped cruelly away. I’ve come to know a hate that I never knew existed… so I don’t know what I’ll do or how I’ll do it, but I do know that I _will_ do it and I _will_ hunt them down one by one.”

“You could do it with me. Well not just me…The Agency, I mean.” Liam suggests lightly.

“I’m not an agent.” Harry reminds.

“Yeah, obviously, not now.” Liam rolls his eyes, smiling slightly. “But you could become one.”

“And why would I do that?”

“We could help you. We are both after the same people, it only makes sense. And we could give you the tools you need to do it.” Liam says, shrugging his shoulders. “I dunno mate, just a thought…no pressure or anything. I won’t force you.”

“Mmm, I’ll think about it.”

Liam always has a way of making little suggestions or recommendations in a way that’s completely nonthreatening or forceful but then makes almost too much sense to pass up. Harry almost wants to dislike Liam for it, but really he can only love him for it.

“That’s all I ask, mate.” Liam grins knowingly, sounding pleased with himself. “That’s all I ask.”

Harry smiles silently. He never smiled much here, but Harry finds that Liam’s ridiculous faces and intuitive stories and far off tales, have given him a reason to smile at least once a day over the last year. If nothing else comes out of all this, Harry is deeply honored to have known Liam.

“Anyways so about tonight…we just have to break the thin surface of dirt left to be above ground.” Liam explains. “Now as far as I know, this shitty stone shack is only guarded at each of the four corners and it has very poor visibility, especially at night. Once we get from under the wall of the building we will make a run for it all the way to the perimeter gate. If we can get passed the gate, it’s all about speed and just running at that point. They will most likely catch on, but I’m hoping we can at least get a ten-minute head start.”

“Well, you’ve gotten us this far…I’ll just follow your lead.”

 

* * *

 

Under the cover of darkness, Harry and Liam climb out of the snug tunneled hole that they’ve spent so many hours tirelessly digging. Heavy rain is falling from the night sky, instantly soaking the rags adorning their soiled bodies.

Once completely free from the ground, Harry follows closely behind Liam, sliding along the exterior of the stone building with extreme caution. Liam looks around the corner carefully, moving with all the grace of a seasoned and experienced agent, stealthy and slick. Liam spots a single armed guard on the far east side, not paying much attention, apparently more concerned with avoiding the severity of the rain than properly manning his post.

“On my count.” Liam whispers to Harry, pointing to a seemingly clear path straight to the outside gate. There is only about fifteen meters separating them from freedom. So close, it almost doesn’t even seem possible, seem real.

Harry nods his head in acknowledgement, pressing close to Liam against the wet wall behind them.

Liam gives the signal after a slow and steady silent count and they take off sprinting across the open dirt field, running as fast as they can possibly manage in the heavy downpour showering against them. For the first time in ages, Harry’s lungs take in fresh clean air, not the stank, foul rancid air that has plugged his nostrils for over a decade, but fresh invigorating oxygen, mixed with the refreshing smell of pure rain.

They reach the gate, finding that its bars are laced with sharp barbed wire, presenting a bit of an unforeseen issue. Not having much choice, Harry and Liam begin to climb the fence regardless, the harsh spikes cutting their hands, scraping their legs, slowing them down as they scale the fence. The falling water of the sky washes away the carmine tinge of their fresh wounds, scarlet blood mixing with previously untainted water, falling to the thick mud below them.

In the distance the sound of ricocheting gunfire echoes around them, Harry and Liam’s absence suddenly known by their imprisoners.  The incessant shots rain closer and closer, bullets reverberating off the sides of the fence, nearly hitting them with every round.

Harry makes it over the gate first, hands covered in an odd mix of his own blood, dark mud and rainwater attempting to wash away the filthy stains. Harry turns around to wait for Liam, who is still some ways away from the reaching the bottom, having paused several times to help Harry and avoid gunfire.

Just as Liam finally jumps to the ground from the gate, another round fires against him, a nearly missed bullet catches him right in the center of his upper thigh. “Fucking shit!”

“Are you alright?!” Harry shouts, rushing back to a fallen Liam. As Harry scrambles to make it back to him, a bullet pierces him straight through his right shoulder, the force of blow knocking Harry back momentarily. “Fuck!”

Harry crawls low against the mud, avoiding further flying bullets above him, favoring his good side as he reaches Liam’s crippled form at the base of the gate. “Liam!”

Liam shakes his head repeatedly. “It’s my leg, I don’t know if I can run. Go on without me, Harry!”

“No, I’ve got you, mate.” Harry slings his good arm around Liam’s shoulder, lifting him up with much strain, supporting his wounded leg, as they hobble into the cover of the thick woods.

The gunshots continue relentlessly, long range bullets soaring around them as they dart and dodge through the forest, Liam’s untimely lower limb injury slowing them down, along with the slickness of the muddy woodland floor.

After only a few minutes of strained hobbling about, Liam sinks to the ground suddenly, groaning as he clutches at his side, pulling Harry down with him to the wet forest dirt. 

“Liam!” Harry drops to Liam’s side in the mud, looking over his trembling damaged body, eyes alarmed.

Liam looks down, removing his hand from his heavily bleeding abdominals. Apparently he had been shot more than once when he jumped from the gate. Harry didn't even realize in all the rush, the darkness surrounding them and heavy fall of rain, masking the wound. 

“Harry, just go!” Liam instructs, pushing Harry away from him weakly, pounding water cascading around them, growing heavier. “L-leave me and run!”

Harry shakes his head, placing his wet grimy hands over Liam’s open, gushing wound, not even paying the slightest bit of attention to his own bleeding injury. “I'm not leaving you Liam, I can't.”

“You have to, I c-can’t run with this leg and I've seen t-this type of wound b-before.” Liam trembles, wincing against the pain inflicted on his body. “I won’t m-make it more than a few more m-moments without bleeding o-out.”

The gunshots and angry yells grow steadily closer and louder the longer they stay unmoving in the dirt. There is only a five-minute distance between them and their fast moving, dangerous suitors, however, that time is slowly diminishing.

Harry applies more pressure to Liam’s profusely hemorrhaging lesion, refusing to let go, refusing to leave. “No! No, but Li-”

“Listen to me, Harry!” Liam coughs, eyes scrunched in obvious discomfort, his breathing growing more and more erratic. “I d-don't have much time and…n-neither do you. There is an a-abandoned safe-house, about t-twelve kilometers n-north of h-here.” 

Harry frantically alternates between pressing against Liam’s bleeding abdomen and his inner thigh, both wounds pouring out abundantly, the vermilion blood infusing with the falling rain faster than Harry can stop it.

“You'll f-find a go-bag there, beneath the f-floorboards under the t-table, inside should be a bit of money and a p-phone and a change of clothes. Text the w-word _SILVERFOX_ to the only n-number programmed in the p-phone and Niall will find y-you.” 

Harry pauses, looking at Liam though the matted strands of his wet hair, shaking his head, slowly. “Liam…I...”

“It's alright H-harry. It's a-alright.” Even in evident pain, Liam is still the epitome of a true leader, the training engraved deep within him, overriding his physical ailment. “T-tell Niall who y-you are and that I s-sent you, he'll k-know what to d-do.”

Harry is speechless. He never imagined that he’d be forced to leave Liam behind, if anything he imagined himself being left behind in exchange. After all Liam has done for him, after all the pleasant times they shared even in the midst of despair, it feels wrong to leave his friend behind.

“Over the y-years, I've a-accumulated a bit of m-money, as I have no descendants and you are my last t-true friend, I'll leave it a-all to you.” Liam rushes out, trying to talk as fast as possible even though he is physically gasping for breath. “Use w-what I've taught y-you Harry, never f-forget it. Find a way to take these b-bastards down. Do it f-for me, do it for y-you, do it for everyone w-who has been wronged by that s-shit company. E-end this, mate.”

“I will.” Harry whispers softly in the rain, squeezing Liam’s hand tightly as he gazes sadly into the pained eyes of his friend. “Thank you for everything, Li. It's been nice having a real friend again.”

“It's b-been nothing b-but a pleasure, mate.” Liam answers genuinely, meeting Harry’s eyes and tightening his altogether still weak grip on his hand. “Now g-go! Leave me! Quickly! I'll cover f-for you as long as I c-can. Go!”

“Bye Liam.” Harry pulls Liam to his chest briefly in solemn farewell, the oozing blood spilling over against him, percolating against his torso. Harry stands to his feet, looking to his right and left before taking off, running north as Liam instructed.

As Harry runs he can hear rowdy shouts and boisterous screams ringing through the dripping of rain drops, he hears Liam’s voice yelling over the pitter-patter of water droplets, before he hears another gunshot and the forest falls deathly silent, the echo of the lone shot rippling out amongst the trees. 

Harry runs faster, as fast as his legs will carry him, bare feet hitting hard against the wet mud of the earth, breath ragged and staggered. He wishes he had time to mourn the loss of his fallen friend, to commemorate his memory in reverence, but he uses his sadness as fuel. Harry is weak and tired, wounded by the constant throbbing of his pierced shoulder and various cuts scraping his body, debilitated by the continued loss of blood, inhibited by the unfortunate fact that hasn't eaten properly in the last eleven years, but all the same, he is fueled.

Harry’s feeble body is fueled by his unforgettable hurt, by all that he has unfairly lost in this dejected life. Fueled by his undying desire for retribution, by his thirst for vengeance. 

On his life, he will finish this. On his very life, Harry vows that he will stop at absolutely nothing to bring every single malicious person who wronged him to justice.

He will end this. Harry will have his revenge.

 

* * *

 

_“Can we account for instinct? Are there not some places where we seem to breathe sadness? — why, we cannot tell. It is a chain of recollections — an idea which carries you back to other times, to other places — which, very likely, have no connection with the present time and place. Now, return to the current world still more brilliant because of your former sorrows.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_


	2. Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's POV continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi loves, 
> 
> this act essentially serves to establish framework and lay down the foundation of the proceeding acts. that sounds very vague I know but i hope you enjoy it! :) thanks for all the feedback :))

** Act II ** 

_“If it is one’s lot to be cast among fools, one must learn foolishness.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_

* * *

 

Propelling his fatigued legs against the viscous showering of rain, running barefoot though the thick of the forest, sprinting under the shadowy cover of night, Harry’s body is so very weary, in desperate need of relief, of rest.

Twelve kilometers is far for an able-bodied, physically in-shape individual, but for Harry, it might as well be a million kilometers away. His mind repeatedly screams at him to stop, to slow down, to quit, but he can’t. Harry knows he can’t, not unless he wants to go back to the hell he came from. He must push on, despite his injuries, despite his fatigue, despite his vast raging emotions, Harry must push on.

By the time Harry makes it to the dingy safe house, the muscles of his legs can hardly hold him up, weakened not only from the extensive marathon he just partook in, but from years and years of poor nutrition and physical hardship. Harry takes a moment to lean against the solid wood of the small house, winded lungs gasping wildly for much needed oxygen. His mouth is incredibly dry, desperately parched and in persistent demand of water, a slight metallic taste coating his tongue, reminiscent of acrid blood.

Stumbling, Harry crosses the expanse of the safe-house, tripping over his own feet weakly as he drops ceremoniously to his knees on the floor. He feels around desperately, trying to find any signs of loose floorboards or free paneling.

Lifting the corner of a shaky piece of wood, Harry finds the go-bag just as Liam described, under the creaky wooden floorboards. From the bag, he digs out a black satellite phone, blindly punching in the code word and hitting send to the only contact number he sees.

Once the message is sent, Harry tumbles from his knees, phone clutched in his grasp, hitting the hard wood floor with fatigue. Pure exhaustion overpowers his feeble injured body, the still bleeding bullet wound in his shoulder panging incessantly. Harry tries to fight the overriding forces compelling his eyelids to flutter closed, he tries to will his mind to stay awake, to stay present.

But it’s far too hard and Harry is far too weak, giving in to the forces that shroud him, slowing passing out, lying spread across the wooden ground, blood trickling silently from his abrasions.

 

* * *

 

“Oh god.” An alarmed male voice sounds through the layers of Harry’s deep heedless cognizance.  

Irish. Harry thinks within his head. He must be Niall, Liam always joked that his partner was a deadly leprechaun. 

Harry feels a hand touch his wrist, most likely checking for a pulse, then he feels a head against his chest, assumingly listening for a heartbeat, for any vital signs of life.

“Shit.” Niall curses under his breath, sounding unpleased by what he gathers about Harry’s condition. Niall gently wipes a few heavily tangled strands of Harry’s hair away from his damp forehead. “Oi, can you hear me, mate?”

Harry wants to answer, wants to tell Niall that he is alive, but he can't seem to get the words from his brain to connect to his stagnant mouth. Can't seem to get his heavy tired eyelids to open or his body to respond to any of his requests.

Harry tries again, with all the shear strength he has left, gasping croaks escaping his lips, sounding unintelligible and inarticulate.  

“What?” Niall leans in, listening closely as best he can. “Who are you?” 

Gusts of anguished garbled breaths fall from Harry’s mouth, traces of lingering sound attached in soft rumblings. “L-lia…”

“Liam?” Niall questions, head held close to Harry in attempt to try and understand his breathy, low mumblings. “Did Liam send you?”

Harry nods his head marginally, almost not at all, eyes still squeezed closed. It’s like he is fighting against the will of his own body. He feels a pressure against his throbbing wound, a bandage being pressed against his injured shoulder.

“I don’t know how well you can understand me but, I’m Niall.” Niall says, lifting Harry’s body up partially to secure the bandage properly. “You're going to be ok, mate.”

Harry winces harshly against the pulsing of his open bullet wound, before blacking out again, too frail and fragile to remain conscious any longer. 

 

* * *

 

When Harry wakes again, he finds himself lying in a clean, sterile bed. He assumes he must not have been out for very long, still clothed by the same tattered rags, dirt packed under the beds of his fingernails. An IV line is infused into a proximal vein in his forearm, while his upper body is completely bandaged up.

Harry blinks several times, orienting himself to his surroundings and adjusting to the overly bright lighting. His eyes ache, not inclined to such luminescent environments, his eyes have grown accustom to dull, poorly illumed lighting and dark, murky shadows.

“You're awake.”

“It's so...bright...” Harry croaks blearily, eyes squinted against the blinding light of the overly illuminated room. “Like sunshine…” 

“Sunshine?” Niall questions curiously, moving to stand alongside the bed, hovering over him. “Who are you? And what happened to Liam?” 

Harry groans, body creaking as he sits up slightly. “I’m…Harry.” 

“Fucking hell.” Niall breathes out, sounding shocked. “Fuck…like…as in…Harry Styles?”

Harry nods his head weakly, attempting to open his eyes wider against the vivid shinning light.

“I…um…The Agency, we’ve assumed you dead for the past decade.” Niall says slowly, stunned. “But…you're alive…”

“Supposedly.” Harry rasps groggily. “I'm not really sure to be honest.” 

“So you’ve been held hostage this entire time…with Liam?”

“I would still be, if it wasn’t for Liam.” Harry confesses solemnly, finally getting his eyes at least partially adjusted.

“Where is he? What happened to him?” Niall wonders again.

Harry pauses for a moment, sadness waving over him once more. “He’s dead.”

Niall’s face pales rapidly at the news of his fallen partner, mouth falling open slowly. “What?” 

“Liam died saving me…I'm…I’m so sorry.” Harry apologizes genuinely, tone distraught.

Niall remains quiet for several minutes, staring at the wall blankly, until he suddenly regains composure, snapping back to reality. “I’ll be back.”

Niall abruptly strides out of the room, closing the steel door behind him, leaving Harry all alone, a state he is very very accustomed to at this stage in his life.

Harry looks around the room again, eyes slowly taking in the clean vicinity, until he catches sight of what he can only assume is himself reflected a simple mirror. He gasps audibly, nearly going into cardiac arrest. 

Startled by his own reflection, shocked by the wide, terrified eyes that meet him in the mirror, Harry scrambles as best he can off of the bed, yanking the IV line from his arm and stumbling closer to the mirrored image of his current self.

He hasn't truly seen himself in so long, just misconstrued reflections in the puddles at his feet in his stone walled dirt cell. Harry is far beyond aghast as his fingers graze over the paralleled image in the mirror.

He looks like shit. Complete and utter shit.

His grimy face etched in filth, cheeks sunken in, hallowed from undernourishment. His knotted hair is far too long and dreadfully matted, caked in years of dirt and dried blood. Harry knew his hair was long, obviously, it hasn’t really been cut in ages. He could always see it hanging against his chest and feel it dangling against his back. Harry also knew that over the years a full beard had sprouted from the follicles along his once smooth face, but yet he doesn't recognize himself. Not even slightly. There is essentially a stranger in the mirror staring back at him.

The eighteen-year-old boy Harry remembers himself to be is now a nearly thirty-year-old man. A thirty-year-old man with dead eyes and haunting skin, hardly any life present in his broken soul.

It is a bit overwhelming to be honest, a harsh slap to reality. The reality that Harry didn't

spend the last eleven years in a time capsule, he wasn't frozen in a single space dimension. Time went on without him, life went on without him. The world kept turning, kept revolving, while his life wasted away, year after long and agonizing year.

“We're gonna get you cleaned up, ok Sunshine?” Niall says softly next to him. Harry hadn’t realized he had come back into the room, far too enraptured by his staggering reflection.  

Harry can’t seem to tear his gaze away from his own unfamiliar eyes in the mirror, simply blinking back at himself repeatedly. It’s as if he woke up from a coma, an eleven-year coma and now everything, even himself, is foreign.

“You’re going to be ok.” Niall comforts, placing a reassuring hand on Harry’s good shoulder. “We are going to get you all fixed up, help you recover, and then you’ll work with us.”

“What?” Harry turns slowly to face Niall, brow furrowed. 

“The Agency.” Niall clarifies simply. “You'll work with us. Since you’re alive we can combine what we know about these people, about Blackstone, and bring this whole thing to light.”

It’s just like what Liam had said to him back in his dingy cell, what he lightly suggested that Harry do once finally free. Of course Harry wasn’t going to sit back and do nothing in the face of so much abominable injustice, but going beyond his own personal feelings, Liam would have wanted him to do this. He would have wanted Harry to go about seeking retribution in the right way and he owes Liam his life and so much more.

“I'll train you, teach you everything you need to know.” Niall continues. 

“Liam taught me a lot already. A bit pushy at times, but…knowledgeable and…he…I don’t know… he cared so much…about everything. He just…he taught me a lot.” Harry repeats again softly, words ungraceful and jumbled as thinks back on all his times with his late friend.

“Did he?” Niall asks, a ghost of a reminiscent smile passing over his features. “That sounds like him.”

“Yeah.” Harry nods quietly. “He was a great person…I’m really sorry that…he…”

“It’s ok…” Niall shakes his head, stopping Harry from continuing his apologies. “After no word from him, I assumed Liam died years ago when he was first captured. I grieved for him then. But I’m happy that he got to help you first, he always had such a fearless, selfless spirit.”

Harry casts his gaze down, agreeing silently to himself in remembrance. “Um…if you don’t mind me asking…” He starts, looking up at Niall’s open eyes. “Um…it’s just that Liam always spoke so highly of you…and it just seemed like maybe…I don’t know…were you and Liam…”

“We could have been…or we should have been.” Niall answers, understanding Harry’s unasked question, a slight sadness in his tone. “But...this job, being an agent...it comes with many risks and casualties and we knew in the end that we couldn't. We didn’t want to end up hurting each other so we let each other go. I loved him though and I knew he loved me and for us...that was enough. It will always be enough.”

Harry once again lowers his head wordlessly to gaze upon the cold floor beneath him. “Niall, can you do something for me?”

“What is it, Sunshine?” Niall inquires, hand still on Harry’s shoulder.

“Well…um…I’m sure you’ve read my file and everything and you know all about who I used to be before all this and um…” Harry starts timidly, not knowing how to properly word his actually simple question. A question he has been needing an answer to for longer than he can truly remember. “So you probably know about Louis…or me and Louis…and um…Do you think that…maybe you could…find out what happened to him for me?”

Niall’s eyes flash darkly for a moment, but only a single moment, an uneasiness in his gaze. “Um…yeah, mate…sure.” He replies hesitantly, almost avoiding Harry’s eyes. “But let’s get you cleaned up first, ok?”

“Ok.”

 

* * *

 

“Got something for you, Sunshine.” Niall declares, walking into the safe-house. Harry sits at a metal desk, a row of sleek weapons laid out before him. After a week of recovery, and series after series of baths, scrubs and groomings to get all the years of shit off of his body, Harry now looks somewhat presentable. He is still dreadfully skinny and terribly weak, but he has definitely made much progress already.

Harry decided to keep his hair reasonably long, finding a simple comfort in its length. He had it styled into a manageable haircut, curls still hitting his shoulders in no longer matted waves. His full, grungy beard groomed down to a short clean brush of soft hair across his face.

“The Agency has taken the liberty of developing your new identity.” Niall announces as he stands in front of the table seated by Harry.

“My identity?” Harry asks, lifting an eyebrow as his fingers attempt to put back together the components of a GLOCK 22 .40.

Although their official training has far from begun, Niall already began showing Harry the ropes and subtle elegance of ordnances. Niall told him that to truly understand a weapon, to understand the complicated nature of a gun, he must first learn its insides, the simplicity that lies within its components. Harry must learn how it functions, how the pieces all click together from the firing pin to the slide to the trigger to the barrel. He must understand the small basics to understand the whole concept. To understand what is involved to fire a weapon. To understand what proceeds in order to take a life.

“Yes.” Niall confirms, handing Harry one of the manila files from the thick stack held in his arms. “As you already know, you’ll be going undercover to infiltrate Blackstone from the inside. So we will be giving you a new, more appropriate name.”

“A new name?” Harry asks curiously, taking the folder from Niall and opening it.

“Well yes, duh. Although, if it were up to me I’d legally change your name to Sunshine ironically…because you’re just _so_ bright-spirited.” Niall says sarcastically, grinning slightly. “But, seriously…you can't waltz in as Harry Styles. Not if this is going to be a success, anyway.” 

Harry nods silently in understanding as he reads over the file in his hands, detailing the origin and background of his new alias. “Alexandre de la Pailleterie?”

“Mhmm.” Niall hums, almost in a satisfied tone. “Doesn’t that just sound like money? Very uppity, I think. Kinda just rolls off the tongue.”

“It’s a very pretty name, I suppose. A bit pretentious…but ok.” Harry responds, picking up a pencil as he makes little marks along the margins of his file. “Do I really have to have people call me Alexandre though? That’s such a long first name.”

“You can go by Alex among friends of course.” Niall beams, content with himself.

“Oh joy.” Harry remarks flatly.

“Alright Sunshine, so I’ll run down the details with you briefly.” Niall starts, moving the weapons on the table aside. “You come from old money, a long line of wealthy descendants and shit, most likely have noble ancestry somewhere along the line. You are of French decent, obviously, with that last name. But since I’m ninety-nine percent sure that you don’t have a passable French accent, you will say that you were raised in England, but your father is French.”

“I do speak a little French actually, it’s rusty and not the best but….” Harry shrugs, still peering over the contents of his file as he twirls the slim pencil between his fingers. “ _C’est la vie._ ”

“Perfect!” Niall smiles, clapping his hands together. “So using Liam’s money, we will set you up as a distinguished, wealthy and extremely eager investor. We’ll get you the huge house, the expensive car, the designer clothes, all that fucking showy rich shit, so you can easily blend in and associate with the masses.”

When Liam said that he had accumulated a bit of money Harry expected it to be well…a bit. But he had no idea that by ‘a bit’ Liam actually meant _millions_. Niall explained to him that Liam also came from family of money, which Harry vaguely remembered Liam mentioning.

However, Liam never wanted to use any of it for himself, he didn’t want anything to do with it after finding out about some shady dealings within his own bloodline. He left home and ended up joining The Agency in an attempt to work against the twisted advancements of the rich. And up until his mother’s death, his last remaining relative, Liam never once touched the money, never knew what to do with it besides leave it alone and completely untouched, allowing it to grow with investments on its own. Niall said that Liam wanted to use the money for good one day and using it to upend Blackstone Trust, a company rooted in evil, is about as noble as it comes about now.

“As I’ve been undercover for years, I already have a level of established trust with these people, but as you don’t, over the next year I will be establishing your credibility. Or rather, the credibility of your new alias.” Niall further explains, as Harry listens silently, simply twisting his pencil and reading over the file before him.

“The purpose of all this is to get you close enough to the head figures so we can obtain the information we need to shut this shit down.” Niall slaps another stack of files down onto the metal table. “These are all the major heavy hitters at the company that we will be targeting.”

Niall opens the first folder, displaying it in front of Harry. “Simon Cowell, age sixty-four, owner of Blackstone Trust LP.”

“What?” Harry asks in confusion, gazing down at the open file. “Owner?”

“Ever since the untimely passing of Zayn’s father five years ago, Simon has owned and controlled the company, advancing it to the lucrative tyranny it is now.” Niall explains, pointing to a picture of Simon and Zayn’s late father shaking hands.

Harry never liked that man. Never. During his internship he only officially met Simon once and was immediately put off by him. The cold in his eyes, and the greed in his smile, leaving Harry with chills. Undeniably, there is nothing but wretched evil at the core and nature of Simon’s twisted spirit.

“Simon? Why not Zayn?” Harry questions, glancing over the photograph with a sickened expression. “Zayn’s father didn’t leave his entire empire to his son? What happened?”

“I don’t know mate. I’ve been trying to figure that out personally for years, but I’ve never gotten close enough. I’m still doing some digging though. But that leads me to…” Niall opens another folder, laying it down on top of Simon’s. “Zayn Malik, age thirty-one, Chief Executive Officer, CEO, of Blackstone Trust LP.”

Harry looks down at the surveillance pictures of Zayn, grazing over his file. The sight of him alone is like a shock to the system. Harry feels a slight wave of nausea reign over his body as looks upon the photos with abysmal disgust.

“Zayn essentially runs the company, as Simon is overseas and traveling the majority of the time.” Niall expounds. “He is known to be a strong leader, and from the outside it appears that he is thriving and so is the company.”

Harry skims over the prints of Zayn in tailored suits, exiting limousines and walking unsuspectingly into his office building. “But…on the inside?”

“Well, on the inside, it’s completely corrupt, an elaborate and very sophisticated Ponzi Scheme, filled with numerous accounts of white collar crime. Most of their clients and investors are being cheated right under their very noses. It’s a twisted game, the nasty power struggles of the rich and money hungry.”

Harry faces folds in repugnance as he picks up a close-up photo of Zayn. He has grown into his looks even more so since when they were teenagers. Edged dark facial hair gracing his cheeks, perfectly styled onyx hair, swooping away elegantly from his face. Although Zayn is dashingly handsome, all Harry can truly feel as he looks upon Zayn’s face is deep and unsettling revulsion.

“Then we have Ben Winston, age forty-two, Chief Operating Officer, COO.” Niall opens up one of the two remaining folders, picking up the other and silently tucking it under his arm. “Ben is second in command to Zayn, managing all the day-to-day operations within the company and reporting them to Zayn and if necessary, to Simon. He is privy to most of the dirty dealings and is known by The Agency to have gotten his own hands dirty from time to time.”

“Meaning?” Harry questions, lifting an eyebrow as he pauses the spinning of his pencil.

“Think of it this way…when something goes wrong, he takes care of it. Personally.” Niall emphasizes. “Whether that be civil and legally, or under the table with blood left staining his fingernails.”

“Hmm.” Harry hums in understanding. “I remember Ben. He was the one to testify against me in court. He presented all the evidence, fraudulent of course, and delivered it without even batting an eyelash. I’ll never forget his punitive voice, he had no traces of remorse, of uncertainty, it was cold and tactile, harsh even.”

Niall places a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder briefly, before continuing. “To successfully end this, we will use Zayn and Ben as pawns to get to Simon. Now Simon, as I said, doesn’t spend much time in the states anymore, he leaves most of the heavy lifting to Zayn and Ben. However, he would make a sudden appearance if a young, eager and overly zealous investor happened to take a deep interest in his company. Ponzi schemes rely on the pull of new potential clients and investors. Even though this whole ordeal is far more advanced than your typical fraudulent investment scheme, the basic principals still apply. Simon can’t deny the temptations of more money and elevated power, if there is even the slightest chance that he can rope another wealthy client into his schemes he will do it, at all costs.”

“Alright, I get it, so what are we going to do?” Harry questions.

“And that’s where you come in, or…Alexandre de la Pailleterie.” Niall continues, pointing down to Harry’s file again. “You’ll get close to them, study them, gain their trust, lure Simon in and then burn them all to the ground. There are many more corrupt businessmen beneath them at Blackstone, but if we take out the top three, everyone below falls to ash.”

“Once you get to Simon we will need Blackstone’s client list and the ledger to truly convict all of them and expose everyone involved.” Niall states boldly. “From what The Agency knows, it’s kept somewhere on the premises of the company, but it’s enclosed in a voice encrypted state of the art safe that only Simon can unlock. But we can get to the details of all that later.”

“So…any questions?” Niall asks, looking to Harry curiously.

“No, it all makes sense.” Harry answers, meeting Niall’s eyes questioningly. “But what about Louis? Did you find out what happened to him?”

“Oh um...” Niall glances grimly at the last folder tucked under his arm. “Uh…”

“Niall?”

Niall sighs heavily, blowing steady air out of his nostrils. He leans down and slowly places the last folder down on the table, opening it as he did the others. “Louis Malik, age thirty-two, married to CEO of Blackstone Trust LP, Zayn Malik.” 

Harry snaps the pencil betwixt his fingers instantaneously in shocked hostile reaction. He feels as if he has just been brutally stabbed straight through the heart, staggering backwards against the metal chair he is seated at in outraged denial. Harry’s blood boils tempestuously inside of him, all those overpowering feelings of avid hatred and unfathomable loathing flooding right back to him stronger than ever before.

“I'm so sorry Harry, really I am.” Niall apologizes sincerely, voice soft. “I contemplated keeping it from you, but I figured you would find out anyway when you go undercover.”

Harry breathes heavily, not saying anything. His mind rapid firing with images and imagined visuals of Louis with Zayn or Louis married to Zayn, of Louis being fucking happy with Zayn and it takes all he has in him not to grab the assembled, fully loaded gun hidden under Niall’s shirt and shoot himself in the head. 

This is absolute savagery, so far beyond cruel, far beyond barbarous, utterly inhumane.

“Harry…mate, please say something...anything...”

Maybe it's a mistake or maybe there is more to the story, but suddenly Harry doubts it, he doubts everything. Why would there be more to this, why would there be some kind of clause or silver lining in this unfortunate series of events? When has there ever been in his life? When has life ever ruled positively in his favor?

No, the spiteful malice laden facts, laid out before him are indeed true. Harry’s brother, his now ex-best friend, did in fact marry the love of his life in his absence, while he was held prisoner and tortured for years on end for matters that had no fucking relation to him whatsoever.

Life is oh, _so_ fitting.

Harry lifts his head, eyes raging, teeth gritted, while body as stiff as a board. “He's dead.” His voice leaks through his teeth, icy and cold, more of a promise than a statement. 

“What?” Niall asks startled by Harry’s stark change in tone. 

“Zayn is dead.” Harry repeats again, pure unadulterated hate dripping from his words.

Harry had contemplated what he would do when finally faced with Zayn again. Punish him? Torture him? Inflict the same brutish treatment he was forced to endure? Would he even maybe try to forgive him? Maybe, somehow try to find a way to move past his hate in the end?

Oh, but now Harry knows, he knows painfully well that there can be no other way, Zayn must go. All noble thoughts of ethics and principles of sacrificial forgiveness, of gallant pardoning mercy, of all the magnanimous concepts Liam had babbled about incessantly, aren’t worth a single fuck to Harry anymore. Zayn must die.

“You're going to kill him?” Niall questions again.

“He's dead to me, so to the world he must also be.” 

“This isn’t about revenge, Harry.” Niall tries, attempting to remind Harry in the purpose of all this.

“Oh…but it is. It is to me. He took everything from me, everything I ever loved.” Harry says holding Louis’ picture between his fingers and somehow staring at it with nothing but dread. “For me, it is about revenge, it is about suffering. I want Zayn to suffer as I suffered, to see his world, everything he holds dear, ripped from underneath him as it was so wrongly ripped from me.” Harry slams the picture of his unrequited love down loudly against the solid table, fiery eyes staring up at Niall. “If I do this, if I go undercover and work with you and The Agency to take this vile company down…it’s ending in blood.”

Niall meets Harry’s blistering eyes. “Killing Zayn is not our primary prerogative. However, knowing what I know about your past and what happened to you…I won't stop you. As long as it doesn't compromise our main focus. After all is said and done, and we’ve taken down this sick corporation, I promise I will not stand in the way of your quest for vengeance.” 

Harry nods his head once in acknowledgement, jaw gritted tightly, choosing not to say any more.

“Well Sunshine, we are flying out to L.A. tomorrow.” Niall informs, clapping his hands together, trying to lighten the mood. “There is a safe-house there were we will continue your training, or rather official start your training. And also start setting up your lovely new wealthy identity.”

“Brilliant.”

 

* * *

 

Over the next year, Harry works impossibly hard, pushing every limit and every boundary within himself, fueled by dark unquenchable hatred. The illicit evidence and revealing images found within those case folders, burned across the forefront his mind. They will all suffer, they will all burn. 

Although Harry learned much from Liam, there is still much for him to learn. Niall trains him, day in and day out, strengthening Harry’s weak malnourished body to peak and proper fitness, teaching him the essentials of gun use and combat. All the while, Niall works just as hard building a legitimate foundation for Harry, setting up the posh aristocratic life of his new alias.

Harry decides he likes Niall. Although Harry knows that Niall is extremely deadly and skillfully trained; he has a lovely charm about him, a bit of humor in his eyes that Harry finds oddly refreshing and even comforting.

The sly humor doesn't prevent Niall from whipping Harry’s ass into shape though. Niall knocks the shit out of him, bringing Harry to his knees time after time, as they train. Each and every time, as Harry lays utterly winded on the floor, Niall hovers over him and says things like ‘better luck next time, mate’ or ‘better me, than them’ or even just ‘get the fuck up, you’re fine Sunshine’.

Not only must Harry learn the many ways of skilled combat and artillery, he must also learn to cultivate his etiquette skills and mannerisms to allow him to fit seamlessly in with that of the upper class, the elite. Harry must learn the ways of the rich, of the socially trained.

He knew it once, in some ways, when he lived with Zayn and his exceedingly wealthy family. Harry knew the inveigling tricks of synthetic opulence, knew the transparency of it all.  He knew of how they talked, graceful and poignant, but never rushed, never slurred. He knew of how they held themselves high and mighty above everyone, greater than anyone, more monsters than gods. He knew of how they lived, lavishly and abundantly, caring for the desires of everything and anything, yet wanting for nothing.

It isn't hard for Harry to mimic their language, to adopt a deceitful mask and parade pompously among the wealthy. Well, actually it is quiet hard. Although it doesn’t take much for Harry to master the swindling trade, to espouse a poised camouflage, it deeply sickens him at first.

The first few times Niall has Harry make an unofficial appearance around a few posh circles, the whole charade nauseates him to his very core. Harry constantly feels like throwing up, gagging behind his designer shades, stomach churning underneath the expensive clothes adorning his fit figure.

As Harry studies them, as he learns their habits, their ticks, their tendencies, he must constantly fight back the urge to regurgitate the contents of his digestive system. Harry watches them silently for a few hours a day, cloaked by threads only money can buy, disguised by the appearance of social standing. He blends in effortlessly, never questioned, never bothered.

From a distance, Harry analyzes the very people who ruined his life, who destroyed his existence. Somehow he keeps his composure, holding on to his equanimity, even in the face of so much revolting decadence.   

Only one time did Harry ever make a mistake.

It happened suddenly, at one of his typical stakeouts, a popular, ritzy golf club. Harry was sitting comfortably, legs crossed gracefully at a small circular table as he appeared to be deeply engrossed in the morning paper, a fresh cup of tea steaming to his side. But out of the corner of his eye, in his periphery, he caught sight of a soft brown head. A richly colored caramel head, walking out of the golf club, dressed immaculately in a powder blue button down shirt and fitted, perfectly pressed khaki trousers.

But the soft brown head was not alone. No, of course not. Accompanied by another head, a dark agile raven head, dressed just as impeccably as his brunette headed counterpart. They laughed happily together, smiling widely at each other as they walked hand and hand, side by side, strides matching in pace. They looked picture-perfect, wonderfully content with the assumed joys of life, complexions aglow as they gazed at each other openly.

Harry practically knocked over every single table in his haste to desperately escape the lounge area, definitely causing a disturbance around the other club guests. But he didn't care, he didn’t give two fucks, because it was the very first time he had seen Louis in twelve years. 

And Zayn.

Louis and Zayn together.

Fuck.

Never, ever has Harry felt the slightest bit of animosity towards Louis, never in the past twelve years has he ever blamed him or thought he was anywhere near at fault. But now, now Harry feels a deep, heart shattering betrayal.

When he first found out that Louis had married Zayn, Harry basically separated the concept in his head. Placed the blame solely on Zayn’s manipulations, never once considered Louis to have much say in the situation, but…there is just something about seeing it. About seeing Zayn and Louis, in the flesh, not confined to a frozen, still photograph, not limited to a dreadful concept in his mind, but living and breathing and touching and laughing and loving…together.. _._

Happily, together. Married, together. Together, together, _together_.

To find out that Zayn not only ripped everything from Harry, ripped his life from him, ripped Louis from him, but also went along and took Louis for himself, is beyond vexatious, beyond infuriating. Harry doesn't even know what to do with himself, he wants to lash out, to break things, to curse the ground he stands on. 

Harry survived many things, horrid, cruel things. He survived all types of torturous acts, violent crucifixions and extreme ordeals, but he doesn't know if he can survive this, for this hurts so much more, a pain beyond belief. This is the kind of pain no man can return from.

And maybe it's selfish for Harry to have wanted Louis to wait twelve years for him. And maybe deep down, Harry wouldn't have wanted Louis to sit idle and waste his life away, year after year, with no real reason or indication that Harry was ever coming back. Harry wouldn’t have wanted that, if he is truly honestly with himself, he would have wanted Louis to live as he always told him to.

 _Live as though I’m with you always_.

Their simple promise to each other, that now has so much more meaning than it did all those years ago. What was never meant to be a goodbye statement or a farewell avowal has now been forced to be so.

Truly, Louis had no way of knowing what happened to Harry throughout the years, but still, Harry can't help but be a bit spiteful. He and Louis were supposed to be forever. They were supposed to be unbreakable, eternal.

The one person left in this world that Harry expected to be there for him, to have waited for him, forsook him, moved on. But not only moved on, got married. Married to not just any person, but the very person who put him though hell in the first place, the man who scarified him.

Seeing Louis and Zayn together that day broke him; physically, mentally, and emotionally broke Harry into unrecognizable, unfixable fragments.

Harry went running back to the safe house to report to Niall, as he always does after a stakeout, but he couldn't get the words out, couldn’t bare to speak of what he so unfortunately witnessed.

Instead, he cried. Harry broke down and cried, probably the first time he's allowed himself to cry in so many long years. Harry cried not only in pain, but in mourning. Mourning over the life he lost, mourning over losing the love of his life, mourning over the realization that nothing could ever be the same again.

But he woke stronger the next day, more focused, that much more driven. Harry pulled himself back together, reassembled the broken pieces of his shattered spirit the best he could, stifled his consuming emotions and channeled all his energy into preparing for the true task at hand. Destroying Blackstone, destroying the bastards who sealed his desolate fate, destroying Zayn.

 

* * *

 

Eyes locked on his target, body perfectly position, mind focused, Harry’s forefinger twitches slightly against the small crescent clip, before he finally pulls the trigger. Repeating the seemingly simple action without stopping, without hesitation, without caution. Round after round discharging in successive torrents from the loaded barrel of his G22.

“I think you're ready, Sunshine.” Niall whispers behind Harry’s shoulder after the noise has settled, standing together at a practice shooting range. 

Harry lowers his now empty gun, staring off at the objective in front of him. He just shot fifteen consecutive bullets, but yet there is only one hole, pierced straight through the drawn target’s heart. 

“You're ready.” Niall confirms again, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Tomorrow, Alexandre de la Pailleterie makes his first official appearance. Bring them hell.” 

Harry turns to face Niall fully, expression stone hard, jaded and cold. He narrows his eyes to sharp slits, his jaw rigid and clenched, teeth gritted tightly together.

“Hell is too good.” 

 

* * *

 

_“And now...farewell to kindness, humanity and gratitude. I have substituted myself for providence in rewarding the good; may the god of vengeance now yield me his place to punish the wicked.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_

 


	3. Act III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis' POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey friends,  
> well I guess you could say that this is where the story picks up a bit. Once again, flashbacks are in past tense while the present is, of course, in present tense. :))

** Act III **

_“Those born to wealth, and who have the means of gratifying every wish, know not what is the real happiness of life, just as those who have been tossed on the stormy waters of the ocean on a few frail planks can alone realize the blessings of fair weather.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_

* * *

A joke.

It could be nothing but a sick, twisted joke. That people who wear masks for a living, that hide their smirking faces behind designer gold-incrusted frames and conceal the truth of their lives behind materialistic notions of value, would have the audacity to host an event where the sole purpose is to adorn a mask.

A masquerade? Seriously? As if these pointless parties and foolish revelries are deceiving anyone. The whole essence of their lives, the basis of their pretentious existence, is rooted in deception, is the ultimate masquerade; no physical mask is even needed.

And yet…and yet, here, Louis stands among a swarm of concealed faces at an ostentatious masquerade ball, donning his own unnecessarily expensive, decorative mask. Although, truly, he doesn’t need a mask, for he masks himself daily. Almost to the point where he doesn’t recognize himself in the mirror.

Louis wears a mask in self preservation, he hides from himself, hides from the demons that torment his very thoughts, from the unwanted ghosts of the past. He hides himself from the pain.

It’s always there though. The pain, the ominous ache. It may fade or wane away at times, but it’s always there, a constant reliable pulsing, coursing through his body.

As of yet, Louis hasn’t found a way to make the pain stop, to cause it to cease all together. He hasn’t been without this pain for years, since the horrid unforgettable day that his life ended. The day that everything took an unfortunate turn for the worst and never turned back.

The day he learned nothing would ever be the same again.

The day that he was told of Harry’s death.

Louis remembers it all, frame by frame, word by word. In fact, if he thinks about it hard enough, dwells on it for just enough time, it’s as if he is reliving that nightmare all over again.

“Louis, I have to talk to you.” Was the first thing Zayn had said when he walked into the apartment on that fateful day.

Louis closed the door behind Zayn and turned around to face him properly. “Alright?”  

“Um…I have something to um…tell you, but I...” Zayn trailed off, averting his gaze. “I don’t know how to say it…” 

“Say what?” Louis questioned, unaware.

Zayn scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, expression downcast. “Well…it’s…”

“Is it about Harry?” Louis inquired, an air of hopefulness in his tone. “I was going to go visit him today.”

“Yes.”

“Are they going to let him out?” Louis questioned further, optimistic. “Did they find out that he is innocent?” 

“Louis...” Zayn started again, hanging his head.

“Zayn…what about Harry?” Louis asked, heart rate starting to escalate as he took in Zayn’s gloomy demeanor.

Zayn shook his head, eyes clouded before he broke eye contact and gazed down, running a hand through his hair.

“Zayn?” Louis probed again, voice growing more and more alarmed, looking over Zayn’s distraught expression with bewildered eyes.

Zayn lifted his head, tilting it to the side sadly as he gazed upon Louis again. “He's gone.”

Louis brows furrowed in sincere incomprehension. “What? What do you mean...he's…gone?”

Zayn’s eyelids fluttered closed momentarily as he took a deep breath. “He's dead, Louis.” Zayn said softly. “Harry is dead.”

At that moment, at that select timeframe in his life, Louis finally understood a term people often say in times of great distress.

_My heart stopped._

A simple, three-word phrase that held more truth than Louis ever imagined.

For in that moment, after those damned words slithered from between Zayn’s teeth, Louis truly felt his heart stop, he felt the four vital chambers within his chest cease to pump and supply blood to his body; neither his two atria, nor his duo of ventricles felt the need to keep his body sustained any longer. Louis felt the intricate web of blood vessels that weave through his system run cold and dry up, he felt lifeless.

"No..." Louis stuttered softly, not believing Zayn’s grim announcement. "No, no, no...I just...I mean, I just saw him. I saw him two days ago."

“I'm sorry Lou, I'm so so sorry.” Zayn apologized repeatedly, stepping closer to him, in an attempt to provide comfort.

“Please…no...” Louis shook his head violently, refusing to accept the truth. He took several steps back, dragging his hands against his scalp as he breathed heavily, panic settling in, practically choking him mercilessly. “No...no...no...”

“Louis, I'm sorry but he-” 

“Don't!” Louis screamed, expression utterly broken as hot tears stained his cheeks. “Don't you fucking say it again, Zayn! Don't!” 

“Lou, I know what you must be feeling…and I-”

“No! No you don't fucking know what I'm fucking feeling!” Louis yelled, arms outstretched above his head in frustration. “How could you know!? Were you just told that the person you love more than anything is...is...is…”

Louis couldn't even finish his sentence, he couldn't finish the statement, couldn't bare to utter the words for fear that if they were said aloud, if they were to tumble from his mouth, that they would be spoken into existence. That it would all be real. And it couldn’t be real. None of this could be real. Louis couldn't live in a world where Harry was no longer with him, a world where Harry was no longer breathing. That couldn't be real. This couldn't be real, he refused to accept that. 

“Oh my god!” Unable to hold himself up any longer, Louis legs crumbled beneath him as he sank to his knees on the floor. Louis folded in on himself as he sobbed heavily, crossing his arms across his body, fingernails digging sharply into his own flesh in torment. He felt Zayn rush to his side, felt him pull his trembling body against his chest. felt him wrap his arm around him, felt Zayn try desperately to pacify him.

But he didn't really feel it, Louis didn't really feel anything. The only thing he could feel was the thing he wished not to feel at all, the horrid feeling of knowing he would never see his love again. He would never see his Harry again. 

“Harry!” Louis cried out in agony, in brokenness, in despair. “No Harry! My Harry, not my Harry!”

Zayn tried to calm him down, tried to smooth his cries, to ease his distress, but it was to no avail, as Louis thrashed wildly. Beating against Zayn’s chest, his body writhed uncontrollably in anguish within Zayn’s arms as he screamed Harry’s name again and again and again, sounding that much more broken with each and every wail.

Louis cried for hours without stopping, without breathing, unable to get a handle on the emotions that consumed his broken body. Unable to wrap his mind around the idea of Harry being gone, actually gone from his life. 

He couldn’t believe it. He refused to. He needed to know for certain. It wasn’t until Zayn came home from the police station with a copy of a surveillance tape from the prison, that Louis began to finally accept the truth. Louis had asked for it, practically begged for it, he just had to know how Harry left the world, in what conditions did he take his last breath.

And looking back on it now, Louis wishes he never saw that tape, for it can never be unseen. He watched as his young, beautiful boy was thrown harshly against the cold gray cement of the deserted common area of the prison by two firmly built men; Louis assumed they were fellow inmates.

It was unmistakably Harry, his signature tossed fringe, swooped across his forehead. He looked so small, so helpless and fragile, curled up weakly on the floor as they mercilessly kicked him at his sides, and rained heavy beatings down on his defenseless body.

After a minute or two, one of the men pulled out a shank, a handmade knife of some sort, piercing Harry pugnaciously in his stomach, the serrated edge tearing through his flesh. Harry’s eyes grew painfully wide, his mouth falling open as the man twisted the sharp blade further into his abdomen.

Louis remembers sending up a silent thank you, that the video had no sound, otherwise he was certain he would have stabbed himself at the shriek of Harry’s screams, at the ghastly sound of Harry in pain and suffering in a pool of his own blood.

Louis ran immediately to the toilet, after seeing that traumatizing footage, emptying the contents of his quivering body from his mouth until he had nothing left inside. He expunged himself, over and over and over until he was simply dry heaving into the porcelain bowl, shaking as heavy sobs took over his body.

Days later, when the mortuary dropped by and placed Harry’s ashes, concealed by a silver urn, in his hands, Louis all but fainted, collapsing onto the floor in a heap of uncontrollable tears. He didn’t want a reminder of Harry’s death staring him in the face, he didn’t want to be rudely reminded whenever he passed by the fireplace, or set foot in this apartment.

So Louis decided to scatter his ashes, cast them out into the wind at all the places Harry had treasured and loved. He flew home to England and put Harry to rest where he belonged, where he should have been safe and sound the entire time. Although it was seemingly therapeutic, Louis cried through the whole thing, with each handful tossed out and set free, a new memory came rushing to mind. He couldn’t seem to ignore all the plans he and Harry had made together, all the promises, now unwillingly and unnaturally broken.

They were supposed to get married, they were supposed to have years and years to love each other, they were supposed to be happy. And now...now all ideas of happy endings and growing old together were obliterated, washed away and scrubbed violently clean.

Louis would never get to travel the world with Harry as they planned, he would never be able to call Harry his husband, he would never get to settle down with him and start a family, he would never get to experience the joys of parenthood with Harry and see him thrive as a father, he would never see grey hair sprout from Harry’s head, he would never get to laugh and joke with him as their memories fade and they grow forgetful with old age. There was a long list of things he was meant to do with Harry and now they all start with _never_.

“Live as though I'm with you always.” Harry had said that to him countless times and when Harry died Louis said it to himself over and over and over again. He lived through it, he meditated on it, it became the only thing he truly felt comfort in. No one could say anything to him about Harry, no one could comfort him, not even Zayn. The only thing that even marginally eased the pain was that simple phrase, brought to his mind in the low thrum of Harry's voice.

_Live as though I’m with you always. Live as though I’m with you always. Live as though I’m with you…always._

So Louis did live, he picked himself up off the floor he called home in his time of mourning, he dusted himself off and…he lived. He lived for Harry.

He knew that if Harry was still alive, he would have wanted him to live and to take care of himself. To not mourn his death forever, but to move on, to go forth and just… _be_.

Zayn was always there for him, though it all. When he had nothing, Zayn was there. He took him under his wing and he provided for Louis. Zayn tried so hard to make Louis smile again, to make him laugh. He did everything he possibly could to help Louis recover, to help him get back to his old self.

And one day, when they were curled up together, cuddled close in each other’s arms, Zayn looked deep into Louis’ eyes and kissed him. Slow and sweet and earnest and Louis kissed him back. He enjoyed the feel of another's lips against his, enjoyed the feel of being touched and wanted and even…craved.

Soon a single kiss turned into many kisses which led to countless tender touches and sweet devotions, impassioned exploits all into the night. One thing building up to the next, escalating and developing until soon, before he knew it, Zayn was asking Louis to marry him.

And of course Louis said yes. Zayn was all he had left, the only person who eased the steady pain in his heart, the only living man who brought him any semblance of joy. 

They've had many good times over the years, happy times, some days so happy, in fact, that Louis almost forgets, he almost allows himself to completely forget, to ignore the fact that Harry is dead and he will never see him again.

Almost.

And when he can’t forget, can’t shake the disquieting reminder of all that was lost, he focuses all his attention on Zayn. He focuses on the feel of Zayn pressed against him, the touch of his determined hands worshiping his body, the thrill and thrum of his own body, open and needy for Zayn’s inebriating affection.

Although he wasn't at first, Zayn became Louis’ everything. 

In fact, Louis is only here, at this idiotic masquerade for Zayn. To support him as a husband should, but truly he would rather be anywhere else.

Louis watches the throng of people flitting and floating around him as he always does, observing them. He always finds a bit of humor in the ridiculousness of it all.

Louis scans around the massive room until his eyes happen to lock with a tall, masked man across the hall. He is standing alone, leaning against the far wall, swirling a champagne flute rhythmically with the flick of his wrist.

Louis swears he has never seen him before at an event like this, but yet he also swears that this man is watching him, he swears that his every move is being carefully observed and mentally documented. But at the same time, Louis isn’t too mad about it because he finds himself staring right back at the man in return.

Even though he wears a simple black mask, covering his eyes and brow, there is something about him. Something familiar and welcoming, yet all together foreign. Louis feels oddly drawn to this stranger, to his strong, powerful presence. He wants to dwell in the feeling, bask in it openly. Steady unexpected excitement thrums under his skin, propelling him blindly towards the enigmatic man.

The man reminds him of something. A warm feeling perhaps, or maybe a familiar place he once went in his youth, a happier time in his life. Or a memorable idea or amenably embraced notion. Or maybe even…a beloved person.

Harry.

Even though he knows it’s just his mind playing cruel tricks on him, tired eyes having seen far too much in one lifetime. Louis knows there is no way this person could possibly be Harry. He watched Harry die. He watched the moment Harry was taken from him brutally. He watched Harry get stabbed, repeatedly. Watched his ashes scatter to the ground and dance in the wind. Louis watched his life end and it is forever burned into all parts of his mind.

Although, maybe, just maybe, this is what Harry would have looked like if hadn’t died. Louis allows himself to indulge in the simple idea. He imagines Harry growing tall, muscular and toned, yet still lean. Soft features morphing overtime to a manly handsome structure, jaw sharpening, cheekbones highlighted. This man is the incarnation of what Louis imagines Harry to be at that age and it is truly a shocking beauty to behold.

Louis could write a tragic poem about the wonders of how this mystery man moved. About the confident grace of his purposeful strides, the elegance he seemed to possess so naturally, with long hair flowing majestically down to his broad angled shoulders.

Yes, Louis could definitely write several beautiful elegies about him, that is, if he still wrote. Nothing has truly inspired him enough to write for years. He has tried though. When Zayn is away on business and he's left to his own devices to distract his thoughts, Louis sits down in his large office and stares at a blinking cursor on a blank page filled with unshed words and invisible sonnets that he can’t seem to get down in truth.

He even tried forsaking technology completely, buying a black typewriter to try to capture his thoughts in ink. And although the clicking and clacking of real keys was entertaining at first, all he ever wrote from it was rubbish. His best work, arguably, is a full, top to bottom page of the repetition of a single word...

Fuck.

Other than that timeless masterpiece, he hasn't hit a single key on his keyboard in ages. Stuck in a wasteland of permanent writer’s block. The words that once fell seamlessly from his fingertips and poured easily down a passageway from his mind to the square keys, now blocked and out of service. That part of his mind is almost locked away for self-conservation. Now he'll be damned to type out even two lines of a text message. 

“Babe, I want you to meet a few people.”

Louis is instantly torn from his trance, snapped from his reverie, blinking several times as his eyes refocus on his husband standing before him. “What was that, love?”

Zayn smiles knowingly, caressing his cheek, sliding his arm possessively over Louis’ lower back. “Mind get away from you again?”

Louis smiles softly, turning his head and looking back to that spot in the corner where the mysterious man was. To his disappointment he finds it completely vacant. Abandoned.

Maybe the man was but another ghost sent to taunt him.

Louis looks upon Zayn again with a small reminiscent smile, a hint of sadness perched at the corners of his lips. “Only for a moment.”

Louis follows blindly as Zayn steers him through the mass of elegantly decorated people at this masked gathering.

Zayn always does this, an attempt to involve Louis in his work life, in his business. At every hosted event, Zayn parades Louis around proudly, mingling and chatting as they go from person to person, CEOs and investors, partners and wives alike.

They all blend in to Louis really. Powerful men in suits, hunger in their eyes, selfishness laced in their fake smiles. The escapades of the rich and famous. Louis is never amused, more disgusted to be honest.

But he does it, he mirrors their fake smiles, and shakes their cold hands, and discusses what little he knows of politics and he throws his head back and laughs loudly at horrid unfunny jokes, he mingles and catches up on the latest hot gossip and he drinks as he pompously critiques the fashion choices of the night.

With legacy as a birthright and last names valued at ten figures, entitlement passed through generations without cause or true foundation, these people know nothing. They know nothing of art, nothing of worth, nothing of sacrifice, nothing that speaks to the soul. Nothing of the true pitfalls of life. It’s all fake, painfully superficial and ridiculous.

And somehow, Louis can seamlessly blend in with these people. Maybe because he is one of them. Louis doesn’t recognize himself in the mirror. He doesn’t know who the person staring back at him is anymore. His life has become a series of parties, and functions, formal events and social gatherings. It’s all dull and tired but he does it, he does it all for Zayn.

Louis promised Harry he’d live and this is the only way he knows how.

 

* * *

 

Louis has never been one for nightmares. Never scared of monsters or of frightening creatures of the dark. Even sometimes daring them to make an appearance, welcoming them with open arms.

But what he is afraid of is something so much more real. Even worse, is that his nightmare, the ultimate nightmare, came true. No longer a nightmare, but a haunting reality.

During the day, Louis can distract his mind easily, with frivolous things or drawn out pastimes, but at night...At night, the voices in his head, the gremlins of the past, the memories locked in the murky folds of his brain, they grow louder and louder, reminding him of the nightmarish life he’s subsisted thus far.

In the depths night, when the voices grow so brash that he is left lying awake, Louis has to take a moment. He comes out here often, walking along the long expanse of the balcony right off of his and Zayn’s master bedroom. He comes out here when he can't sleep and needs to clear his head, rid his mind of the darkness. He’ll have a smoke, maybe gaze at the stars or even just have a silent cry, without worrying about waking Zayn.

Sometimes he needs that. Sometimes he just needs to be alone. Because after all, what can he really do, when the person who could truly get to him, who could counteract him, who could balance his toxicity, is gone? Does he join him? Is that the answer?

Louis leans over the edge of the banister, puffing out small clouds of smoke into the breeze wafting around him. He leans further against the railing, bending over the steady barrier, wondering what would happen if he were to tip just that much further, if he were to lean just a tad farther and tumble over on himself. The weight of his body plummeting him swiftly down the various flights and floors of this grand mansion. 

Down, down, down, he would fall, ceremoniously hitting the cold stone marble of the staircase leading out into the beautiful rose gardens. He would fall and it would all be over. Just like that. The incessant throbbing and pulsing headache would cease and he could maybe, just maybe, be at peace. 

Would he be missed? Would his life be looked upon with longing or with dread? Who knows, really? Louis supposes Zayn would miss him. Of course he would, surely his husband, his lover, his only real solace in this world, would miss his presence. Would miss his face, his smile and maybe even his laugh. And in return Louis would miss Zayn, every single thing about Zayn, from his body to his soul.

But still, even knowing that, Louis wonders, just wonders...

“Hi.” Zayn purrs against Louis neck, jolting Louis out of his musings. Zayn slinks his arms around him from behind, resting his head gently on Louis’ shoulder, his bare chest pressed against Louis’ back.

Louis sucks softly on his cigarette, hollowing his cheeks, blowing out a stream of hot vapor. He burns out the remaining stub of his cig and flicks it across the railing, watching it fall as he imagined himself falling, floating down, down, _down_.

“Hi, love.” Louis whispers softly into the stillness of the night, leaning back against Zayn’s torso. 

“Missed you.” Zayn’s lips murmur against the exposed curve of Louis’ skin. “Come back to bed with me.”

“I can't sleep.” Louis mutters quietly, closing his eyes and relishing the feel of Zayn’s steady, reassuring aura behind him.

“Then we don't have to sleep.” Zayn twists Louis around in his arms to face him, meeting his eyes imploringly.

Zayn has never been anything but beautiful, and basked in the soft glow of the moon, he is absolutely breathtaking. The alluring cerulean moonlight hues, highlighting the stunning angles of his face, accenting the gorgeous shadows of his features.

Louis cups the sides of Zayn’s face, crashing their lips together almost desperately, in a slow drawn out kiss, tongues sliding against each other longingly.

After fervent back and forth, Louis breaks away, leaning their foreheads together. “Ok.”

And the cycle goes on and on, a never-ending, never broken pattern. They do the same thing every single time. Louis buries his feelings against Zayn’s warm skin, he submerges deeply in Zayn’s welcoming manifestation, opening himself up and offering all he has to Zayn willingly. Louis allows himself to get lost in the amatory sensation, he allows himself to feel so he doesn't have to really feel. 

With every soft touch, every tender caress, and every earnest kiss, Louis is set free. And with every targeted suck, every gentle lick, every close press and every passionate thrust that Louis feels against his body, allows him not to feel the ongoing battle inside his head, the internal warfare eating him alive. Zayn frees him, even if only temporarily, Zayn frees him from the traps of his mind, the minefield charged to detonate at any given moment. 

Zayn makes him feel _alive_.

 

* * *

 

“You know, Antigua is lovely this time of year.”

“Mm, I know.” Zayn agrees, nodding his head towards Ben. “I keep telling Louis that we should take a trip to our villa in St. James, but all he does is wave me off.” Zayn smiles at Louis dotingly

“Oh darling, I do not.” Louis disagrees coyly, grinning at his husband. Internally he is so dreadfully bored of this conversation, but _c'est la vie_. “My skin just can’t take the sun like it used to. I’d hate to turn into a shriveled old grape before I even make it to thirty-five. My vanity won’t allow me.”

The surrounding conversationalists all chuckle lightly at Louis’ simple joke. More like falsely in Louis’ eyes. A rally of fake smiles all around, and sadly his is one of them.

“Always so filled with humor, your husband is.” An older gentleman, who’s name escapes Louis’ mind, comments favorably towards Zayn.

“Isn’t he simply amazing?” Zayn beams, softly pecking Louis’ cheek endearingly. “My inamorato.”

Louis smiles fondly again as he poses by Zayn’s side at yet another grandiose formal event, for whatever the fuck, he doesn't know, he doesn't care. He doesn't want to be here; Louis absolutely hates it. Always hated it.

Even when he was younger and his parents would throw these extravagant brazen soirees, he hated it. Absolutely detested the whole concept. It's all so pompous, practiced and pointless. But, of course, as usual, he does it all for Zayn. Anything for Zayn. Always for Zayn. 

As the conversation politely dies down, guests mingling and interspersing once again, Ben and Zayn start talking in hushed tones to one another. Louis takes that as his cue to go escape and find a drink.

It doesn’t take long; once leaving the conversation Louis almost immediately bumps into a server holding a gold tray of bubbling champagne. Not at all useful or strong enough to do much, but it’ll do for now, Louis decides.

He sips on his sparkling drink leisurely, strolling back to the spot where he left his husband moments ago. As he approaches Ben and Zayn unsuspectingly, Louis suddenly stops in his tracks, caught completely off guard, almost dropping the champagne flute from between his fingers to the marble floor beneath his designer shoes. The sorcerous games his brain plays on him are skyrocketing out of control; Louis is borderline sure there must be something wrong with his own vision.

It’s the mystery man, the same man from a few weeks ago, at the masquerade ball. The man Louis had felt an undeniable pull to, a strong familiar magnetism about him, but before he could act on it, the man had disappeared, faded away and Louis had all but forgotten…until now.

“Oh!” Zayn smiles warmly, noticing Louis out of the corner of his eye. “This is my husband, Louis.” Zayn introduces proudly, gesturing over to Louis’ motionless, stunned form.

Louis shakes himself out and walks mindlessly towards the trio of men. He knows his facial expression must be especially peculiar, but he cannot seem to school his face into anything even resembling neutrality.

“Louis, this is...and forgive me if I say it wrong…” Zayn apologizes, looking to the man with a teasingly apologetic expression. “This is Alexandre de la Pailleterie.”

“You can call me Alex.” The mystery man, Louis now knows as Alex, chuckles before smiling charmingly at him, offering his hand cordially.

Louis is frozen, held captive by the startling emerald eyes gazing at him behind stylish dark framed glasses. From far away, the resemblance of this man to Harry has always been alarming, but up close, it's disturbingly and upsettingly striking.

Despite the sharp angles of his face, no longer covered by a simple mask instead adorned by sophisticated spectacles, and despite the deep press of his dimples obscured with groomed facial hair, or the long flowing mane cascading from his head, Alex possesses a likeness to Harry like no other, leaving Louis hopelessly paralyzed under his gaze.

“Louis?” Zayn prompts, as Louis has yet to take Alex's proffered hand. 

“Excuse me…” Louis apologizes, shaking his head in confusion, attempting to focus his mind. “Um…I just remembered that I forgot to um...I mean I…” Louis trails off getting lost again. He can feel Zayn staring at him, silently begging him to not embarrass him in front of his prized client, Alex, but Louis is so so very overwhelmed. “I…uh…sorry, never mind um…it's a pleasure to meet you...Alex.”

A wide grin expands over Alex’s features, looking satisfied and pleased with himself as he squeezes Louis’ hand firmly, drawing his hand up to his lips in a feather-light caress. “Oh, but the pleasure is all _mine_.” 

“Alex is one of our new investors at Blackstone.” Zayn further explains eagerly. “We are so happy to have him, he's an absolute joy to work with.”

“And bloody brilliant.” Ben adds keenly, placing a hand on Alex’s broad shoulder. “We couldn't ask for a better new partner.”

“Oh, you flatter me.” Alex laughs lightly, almost in a bashful sort of way, smoothly adjusting the glasses balancing on the bridge of his nose. “But again, truly the pleasure is none but mine.” The words drip from his lips, impossibly sweet, with a brilliant, all too bright smile.

Louis must admit he is very poised and proper, obviously intelligent, intriguingly smooth with his speech, only the product of private education and inbred money.

If Louis is comparing, which at this point he is, Alex is definitely much taller than Harry was, a good amount taller, actually. His body is enticingly filled out, perfectly suited and tailored immaculately. His posture is impeccably straight, his head held high and dignified, always a knowing smirk to his lips as he talks, a confidence like no other.

“May I steal your husband?” Is what Louis hears when he snaps back to reality, his face twisting in confusion at the odd question coming from Alex's mouth. All he can do is blink several times dumbly at the man before him.

“I’m sorry?” Zayn inquires in clarification.

“For a dance?” Alex adds, gazing down at Louis pointedly, the corners of his lips upturned in that same knowing smirk yet again.

Zayn smiles widely in understanding, clapping Alex on the back. “Oh, of course, partner. Of course.”

Alex pulls gently on Louis’ hand, urging Louis to follow him towards the vast floor. 

Louis looks to Zayn with utter bewilderment as he takes Louis’ forgotten champagne glass from his basically slack grasp. Still gazing questioningly at Zayn, Louis follows after Alex, led by the light tug of his hand.

Has Zayn lost his damn mind or has Louis? Does no one else in this fucking room think this man resembles Harry? Even the slightest bit? Or is it just his own cognizance playing cruel tricks on him? Is he finally losing his mind and going batshit crazy? Has his body become so desperate for Harry that it would disguise any similar suitable man to his likeness?

Probably.

Louis wouldn’t put it past himself at this point in his life. The effects of time causing him to see what he wants, whether his eyes be truthful or deceptive.

Guided by Alex’s grasp, Louis makes his way through the ballroom to the shiny dance floor. Alex turns to face him, bowing his head politely before placing his free hand appropriately on Louis’ upper waist. 

Alex doesn't move like Harry exactly, Harry had a way of tumbling over his own feet, a tragic, although adorable klutz at times. But this man is graceful, never stumbling, never hesitant. The assurance in each step he takes is magnetic, almost hypnotic.

However, even in all his grace, at first stop, Alex’s feet naturally rest inward, his toes pointing towards each other almost awkwardly, before he immediately corrects his stance each time. Harry would always stand pigeon toed, knees knocking together endearingly. Louis misses those little things about Harry, the small details that often get lost in all the noise. Sadly, lost in translation.

Alex uses his hands to draw Louis nearer to him as they start a timely waltz across the floor. As they sway in time to the classical enchanting melodies of _Valse triste, Op.44_ , all Louis can do is stare at him, perplexed eyes gazing at Alex with pure wonder, studying the curves of his face and the micro-expressions that pass over his features.

Alex is gorgeous, that much is unquestionable. The soft tendrils of his hair artfully framing his face, falling gloriously to his shoulders. The tended, neatly edged beard growing lightly along his chin and cheeks, accenting the mesmerizing structure of his jaw, enhancing the dip of his cheekbones. Louis has the urge to touch it, wondering how the soft stubble of his face would feel against the palm of his hand, or against his own cheek, or even against the brush of his lips.

Harry never had facial hair, could never seem to grow it. But Harry was just a boy then, Alex is a man, a man seeming to be about thirty or so, around the same age Harry would be now if he were still alive.

Yes, there is no argument that Alex is physically striking, he is almost unsettlingly beautiful and yet the most unnerving part is that Louis can't for the life him, shake the feeling that he knows him. That he has always known him. That this beautiful man before him is his Harry. 

Alex, obviously aware of Louis' blatant staring, frowns down at Louis through his lenses, furrowing his brows together. “Are you alright?” 

“What?” Louis questions, once again needing to pull himself out of his trance. And there it is again, another minor detail that reminds him of his long lost love. Harry would draw his eyebrows together constantly, whether he was confused or upset or just thinking to himself, he would scrunch his brow in just the same way. “Um...yes, you…just...remind me of someone...”

“Oh?” Alex raises a single eyebrow out of curiosity, spinning Louis around with the eased flick of his wrist. 

Louis nods in bafflement, feet stepping blindly as Alex leads his willing body through the waltz. “Yes...someone long ago who...was very, very close to me...”

“Hmm.” Alex hums, considering, as he tilts his head to the side. “And what happened to him?”

“He died.” Louis answers breathlessly, sounding absolutely confounded, expression so desperately lost and clouded.

“I'm so sorry, my sincerest condolences.” Alex offers sympathetically.

“As am I...” Louis responds slowly, taking in Alex's face as he studies him curiously. He doesn't know what to make of this. Harry died. Harry died twelve years ago and here this man stands, different from Harry in so many ways, but still somehow similar. Still, somehow the same.

"I'm not that man." Alex answers as if reading Louis’ thoughts, as if seeming to know the internal monologue of Louis’ reeling mind.

Louis is just about to answer him, opening his mouth to speak, when he feels the press of another hand on his lower back.

“May I cut in?” Zayn requests, stepping next to Louis but looking towards Alex.

“Oh, but of course.” Alex smiles dashingly at Zayn, dimpled grin nothing but sweet and considerate. He releases Louis, bowing politely and taking a courteous step back. “He is all _yours_.”

Zayn whisks Louis away across the ballroom floor, hands possessively placed on the lower edge of his waist. As they dance, Louis finds himself twisting his body in awkward angles, straining his neck in order to watch Alex curiously over Zayn’s shoulder.

Louis watches him the whole night, there is not a moment when Alex is out of Louis’ range of vision. As Louis goes through the motions of engaging with other investors and stockholders, as he meets guests and other allegedly important individuals, as he is steered around from conversation to conversation, hand locked with Zayn’s, as he mindlessly rambles about things he gives zero fucks about, his eyes never, ever leave Alex.

Alex seems to take note of Louis’ incessant visual assault, glancing up from time to time, eyes averting from his own conversation to meet Louis’ briefly from across the room. He always looks away though; Alex _always_ looks away. Never holding eye contact for more than a single fleeting second.

Louis can’t, he can’t for the life of him, figure out what is going on in Alex’s mind. He can’t seem to read him. His expression is blank, wiped clean of any true emotion, of any real conviction.

Sure, Alex is laughing openly and smiling warmly at the people he is talking to, always engaged and ever so charming, but it’s not real. Louis knows it’s not real. He knows all about masks, about forced chuckles, and stiff smiles. He knows of deception, of charades, of never-ending games, and conning tricks. Unfortunately, he too lives in this world of trickery, he too, hides behind a facade.

From across the grand hall, Louis observes as Alex bends over slightly, tilting his head downwards to the right, causing his hair to tumble over his face. Alex runs his hands through his hair, shaking out his curls in one smooth practiced motion, allowing them to fall back perfectly into place as he rights his posture. 

Louis stares in awe and utter shock, a single hand flying over his mouth as he gasps in disbelief, the simplicity but severity of the action hitting him. It's something so minor, so small, an overlooked tendency that Harry always had. Louis always told him not to shake out his hair so much because Louis thought his hair was perfect the way it was and he would always tease Harry about how he would probably go bald from pulling at it so often.

But Harry, of course, never listened and was always repeatedly shaking out his fringe, a nervous habit, he could never shake and apparently still can't shake. 

Louis can't doubt it anymore, there is no way in hell that Alex is not Harry. How though? How can Harry possibly be standing mere meters away from him, when the footage of him being brutally stabbed to death is endlessly projected on loop in Louis’ mind? When every time he closes his eyes, he sees a mirage of crimson stains, lifeless limbs, and cold pale skin?

He doesn't know. Louis has no fucking idea. But what he does know is that this man, this tall graceful striking man, who seems to have mastered the deceptive art of masked emotions, is Harry.

His Harry.

And Louis needs so desperately to talk to him. More than he needs air to satiate his desiccated, withered lungs, he needs to talk to Harry now. Or Alexandre. Or whoever the fuck he is claiming to be.

Louis watches as Alex strides out of the grand ballroom, the hour is late and he has most likely already said his goodbyes and paid his dues. Louis briefly tunes back into the conversation he is supposed to be engaged in, the importance of seasonal yacht rotation or some such bullshit.

“Excuse me, love.” Louis interrupts suddenly, grazing his fingers along Zayn’s spine tenderly. “I'll be back…I’m just going to um…get some air.” 

“Are you ok, Lou?” Zayn asks in concern, eyeing Louis curiously and placing a reassuring hand on his hip. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, no I’m fine…it’s fine, Zayn.” Louis answers, shaking his head, trying to be convincing when internally his mind is swimming. “Really.”

Zayn tilts his head, frowning slightly, but releases his hold. “Alright babe, find me when you’re ready to leave.”

“Mhmm.” Louis hums absently, kissing Zayn’s cheek before distractedly leaving his side.

Louis weaves through the throng of partygoers, sliding past elegantly dressed guest after fine jeweled guest, navigating his way to the corridor he saw Alex exit through only moments ago. Louis picks up the pace of his steps once he is past all the people, looking to and fro in attempts to spot out the tall, long haired man.

Just nearing the exit, Louis spots Alex, closing in on him swiftly.

“Harry!” Louis shouts down the extensive corridor, only strides away.

Alex's long gaits slow marginally, he doesn't turn around but Louis notices that he inhales heavily, alert back still turned away from Louis, facing the door. 

“It is you.” Louis exhales faintly, breath hitching. “You are Harry.”

Alex still facing the exit door, tilts his head over his shoulder towards Louis. “Who is Harry?” 

“You’re him...” Louis gasps, running over to Alex, looking deeply into his eyes. “You’re my Harry!”

“Who?” Alex scrunches his face in confusion, looking Louis up and down curiously through his glasses. “I’m sorry, I think you’re sadly mistaken.”

“No! I’m not! I can’t be!” Louis shakes his head wildly, reaching to embrace Alex. “Zayn told me you _died_.”

“Mmm did he?” Alex mumbles bitterly under his breath as he harshly shakes away from Louis’ touch. “No! No! I’m not this Harry that you speak of. And this is definitely not appropriate. Don’t touch me.”

“Harry…” Louis chokes out, affronted. He gasps for much needed breath as he feels tears prickling at his eyes, the constant heaviness that pulls at his heart, becoming that much heavier, weighing him down.

“No, I’m not him!” Alex insists again, taking a step backwards from Louis.

“No stop it! Stop!” Louis shouts emotionally, having had enough of these games, trying so hard to hold back tears, but losing miserably. He covers his wet face with his hands, unable to truly conceal his emotions anymore. Why is this happening to him? What did he ever do to deserve this kind of merciless torment? “If you’re not Harry, then what are you? Who are you? Another lingering cruel spirit? A new forbidding ghost sent to haunt me?”   

Alex sighs deeply, looking down to the floor for a moment before casting his gaze to Louis once again, inclining his body nearer. “This man…this Harry, that you speak of...you loved him?”

“Yes.” Louis answers breathlessly, leaning in closer to Alex, nodding his head.

Alex presses faintly closer to Louis. “For how long?”

“All my life I loved him.” Louis replies honestly, conviction laced in the simplicity of his words. He is standing so close to Alex, so close, in fact, that he can feel the slight tickling of his soft breath against his damp cheeks.

“And how long until you forgot him? How long until he faded away to neglected darkness? How long until his name meant nothing to you?” Alex narrows his suddenly cold eyes, accusation riddled in his expression. “How long until you married another man?” 

Louis shakes his head, swiping at his wet eyes, heart panging ruthlessly in his chest. “Stop...Harry, that's not…that’s not fair.” 

Alex’s eyes flash darkly before he spins suddenly on his heel and walks away swiftly, leaving Louis behind him. 

“Harry!” Louis cries in pleading.

“I'm not Harry!” Alex spins around, lifting his arms madly in the air above his head. “I'm not him! I'm not!” 

“But Harry please…” Louis sobs, watery eyes imploring, hoping.

“Stop it! Stop! Stop calling me Harry! My name is Alex!” Alex shouts firmly, the outburst taking Louis by surprise. “But I feel sorry for this Harry of yours. The man who claims to love him, ran so quickly into the arms of another. Was so swift to pass his heart along, easily swayed by the very first offer. I'm glad that I'm not Harry, I'd hate to deal with that kind of heartless, callous betrayal.”

Louis gasps, utterly shocked by the boldness of Alex's words, they reverberate in him, shaking him to his very core. He feels as though he has just been backhanded across the face, the sting just as strong if not stronger. “How dare you! You could never be my Harry. He would never be so hard, so cruel and so hateful.” Louis spits, voice spiked with venom, as he swipes angrily under his leaking eyes. “My Harry is long dead and gone.” 

“Indeed you're right. You said it yourself.” Alex agrees, nodding his head. “Harry Styles is dead.”

Alex's words hit Louis right where it hurts most, straight to the most vulnerable parts of his heart, or what's left of his shredded heart. He doesn't even have an answer, instead lowering his head to the floor in hopeless silence.

"Inform your husband, that I’ll be in touch. Goodnight." Alex farewells, exiting the massive door, without even looking back. Louis looks up from his immaculately shinned shoes and watches him leave. 

Louis stares after him, starting to turn back towards the belly of the mansion. He was so certain, so sure, without a moment’s doubt that Alex was Harry. That the resemblance between them was not a mere coincidence, but a twist of fate. Apparently his only fate in this life is to be tormented and taunted pitilessly. He feels foolish, and a touch embarrassed by his emotional outburst, essentially harassing a guest he just met but hours ago. Will he never escape the ghosts that haunt him so?

When suddenly it hits Louis, realization dawning on him like a swift shock to his system, like being abruptly struck by lightning. Alex's last parting words echoing once again in his head. There is something off about his statement, something that just isn’t right about it.

Louis repeats the phrase in his head several times, chanting it within his mind. 

_Harry Styles is dead, Harry Styles is dead, Harry Styles is dead._

"But...I never said his full name."

 

* * *

  

_“There are two ways of seeing: with the body and with the soul. The body's sight can sometimes forget, but the soul remembers forever.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_


	4. Act IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First two parts Harry's POV. Last part Louis' POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello :)  
> well first thank you all for your comments and everything, i love reading your opinions and feedback! :) so this Act isn't as long i don't think, but it's...heavy. yeah. but i hope you enjoy it! :))

** Act IV **

 

_“You who are in power have only the means that money produces — we who are in expectation, have those which devotion prompts_ _.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_

 

* * *

 

“What’s on your mind, Sunshine?” Niall inquires, dropping down to sit across from Harry at the sleek dark wood table in the dining room of Harry’s massive new house. “You haven’t been the same for days. Not since the last little party you went to.”

Harry huffs out a frustrated breath, sliding his hands through the lengthy locks of his tumbling hair.

“I mean…to be completely honest, you’re always brooding and moody, but now it’s become a bit excessive…even for you.” Niall admits truthfully. “What is it, mate?”

“I think he knows who I am…or he suspects…” Harry answers slowly, voice trailing off as he stares at his folded hands resting against his seated thighs.

“Louis?”

“Yes.” Harry replies simply, head still bowed towards his lap.

“Well…isn't that what you wanted?” Niall clarifies, perplexed.

“Yes, but...no...it’s just…” Harry sighs heavily again, sounding hopelessly torn. “I don't know…”

It’s not that Harry wants Louis to suffer, it’s just that there is a mighty tug of war going on in Harry’s heart, a feud waging within his own mind. On one hand, he wants to throw down the gauntlet, give in to Louis and hold him in his arms again, inhale the rousing smell of his absent presence.

Then on the other hand, Harry wants nothing to do with Louis at all, remembering the painful, always present fact that he is married to his enemy, for god only knows what reason. The duplicity Harry feels, stings with such ferocity and indubitable vigor, that he finds it increasingly hard to think about anything else. He can’t let his guard down around Louis, for fear of being betrayed and hurt, yet again.

But seeing Louis, interacting with him again after all this time apart, almost made Harry forsake his resolve, almost caused him to cast caution to the wind. Louis always had that effect on him. Harry has always been a yielding slave to Louis’ affections. Just one simple touch, one lingering gaze and Harry is gone, hopelessly lost and compliant to anything Louis desires, anything he requests.

And Louis, the current embodiment that has become Louis, is simply beautiful. An absolute wonder in all regards, with striking cerulean eyes, as fierce and startling as ever. The always sharp countenance of his exquisite features somehow grown sharper and more breathtaking over the years. The mystifying form of his gorgeous body, consumes Harry’s mind, tantalizingly curvaceous, yet elegantly petite and dainty all at once.

 “Well…how was meeting with Zayn this morning?” Niall asks, marginally changing the subject away from the always confusing topic that is Louis.

“As good as can be expected.” Harry sulks, rolling his eyes in deep-rooted annoyance.

“Do you think they trust you yet?”

“They trust me more and more each day, and it’s sickening.” Harry spits vituperatively, eyes meeting Niall’s harshly. “I am physically repulsed every time I force myself to look into Zayn’s eyes and stifle the urge to gouge them out of their sockets. Every fucking time I meet with Zayn, I just want to reach across the table and strangle him with the double Windsor knot of his silk tie. Or forcibly stuff caviar down his throat until he chokes and his eyes bug out of his skull or better still, take one of the ludicrously expensive fountain pens from his breast pocket and jab it through the pulsing veins of his neck and watch the ink poison his vile blood as he bleeds out painfully slow.”

Niall chooses to remain silent, jaw dangling open slightly.

“But instead…” Harry closes his eyes, gabbing hold of his raging emotions. “Instead, I bite my tongue in exchange for cursing his name and I plaster on a bright, cheerful smile in the face of my enemy and I cringe inside of my own skin every time he takes another underserved breath.”

“Uh…I see you think about this…quite a bit.” Niall says slowly, eyes alarmed.

“Every. Fucking. Day.” Harry grits through his locked teeth. “All I see is red. And it takes all the self-restraint I have left in me to calm my nervous, trigger happy twitch and end his pathetic life on the spot.  The world I’m living in is coated in blood, innocent blood. When it should be coated in the blood of those who fired the first shot.”

“Well Sunshine, I guess you’ll finally get your first chance to do something about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Agency has made a slight adjustment to the plans.” Niall announces, resting his chin on his hands formed into a steeple against the surface of the table.  

“And?”

“Basically, we’ve got to force the execs into a corner. Make them think that a few of their clients found out about their whole scheme and whatnot.” Niall elaborates. “That they found out they were being cheated and refuse to be fucked with.”

“What are you saying, Niall?” Harry questions, expression perplexed. “What do you want me to do?”

“We have to take one of them out.” Niall answers, face stern and serious. “Tonight.”

Harry scrunches his brow together, considering Niall’s instructions. “What?”

“The Agency has tasked us to kill one of the Blackstone Executives.” Niall further clarifies.  

“Zayn?” Harry inquires, a dark hopefulness in his voice.

“No, not Zayn. He’s far too important.” Niall reminds, shaking his head. “Take out Ben.”

“Why Ben?”

“Well he’s pretty expendable, for one, and it’ll put more pressure on Simon to invest his time in new shareholders.” Niall justifies. “When people feel threatened they tend to make mistakes and if Simon knows he is losing his old client list and people are turning against him, he’ll need new people he can sink his claws into. New people he can trust, and bring into the inner circle. Therefore, seemingly elevating the need for you.”

“The ever-so opportune and timely, dashingly charming and pleasantly witty, Alexandre de la Pailleterie.” Harry smirks pompously, tilting his head up, the melodious name gliding from his lips with a euphonious rhythm.

“Chill, Sunshine, chill. Save all that bullshit for when it matters.” Niall grins, chuckling to himself. “Anyway, The Agency is hoping that Zayn will see you as a suitable and timely replacement for Ben, giving you the secure in we need for you to meet with Simon, and furthermore get the ledger and client list.”

“Sounds easy enough to me.”

 

* * *

 

Positioned in the dim shadows of the massive office space, Harry looms silently, watching as Ben pulls up various illegal accounts on his sleek MacBook screen. For the past hour, Harry has observed quietly, completely unnoticed, as Ben confirms illicit transactions, handling his risky business dealings afterhours, as only a culpable, guilty con artist would.

“Late night reading?” Harry steps out of the shadows, finally revealing himself to an oblivious Ben.

“Jesus!” Ben jolts, alarmed, slamming his incriminating laptop shut in an instant, clutching a hand to his chest. He spins around and sees Harry observing him closely behind his desk. “Oh, it’s only you. Fuck Alex, you scared the living shit out of me! I had no idea you were in here.”

Harry paces closer, leisurely strolling from behind Ben, seated at his desk, to face him silently, hands crossed behind his back as he walks assuredly.

“Um…I didn’t…I didn't know we were supposed to meet tonight?” Ben questions uneasily, voice peaking to a higher, nervous range, eyes following Harry’s unhurried movements. He tries to smile innocently as if he wasn’t just involved in unlawful relations moments ago, but it comes off as unsettled anxiety.

“We weren't.” Harry replies simply, shrugging his shoulders, completely laidback and at ease. 

“Oh...alright then...um…did you need something?” Ben asks, tone uncertain.

Harry looks up at the ceiling and nods his head side to side rhythmically as if considering Ben’s inquiry. “Mmm, I guess you could say that.” 

“Uh…Ok?”

Harry meets Ben’s eye’s suddenly, leaning over against the large study desk, inclining his head in a contemplative manner as he adjusts his faux glasses. “Do you want to know something interesting, Ben?”

“Um...sure?” Ben answers, raising a perplexed eyebrow.

“Well, you see my dear, dear Ben, I find it increasingly interesting that an established investment trust, such as, you know, Blackstone Trust Limited Partnership, that has such an esteemed and highly respected name, would so easily lie and swindle it’s many investors to satisfy the selfish gain of select few.” Harry explains inquisitively, sounding genuinely baffled. “In fact, I find it _truly_ riveting that the people with the actual money originally, who could do much on their own with their exceeding wealth, find it within themselves to trust the likes of you. To put their confidence in someone who is not out to invest and properly finance their assets, but instead to steal and pocket all the money.”

Ben eyes widen in shock, expression flabbergasted. He stands to his feet from behind the desk. “How…how did you...”

“Oh, how did I possibly find out about all that corrupt financial debauchery?” Harry finishes for Ben, standing up straight and slowly walking back around the wide curve of the dark wood desk.

“Mmm yes, how indeed? How, oh _how_ , did I find out about the numerous shady under the table dealings, about the hundreds of offshore accounts, about the fraudulent company ledger that’s kept on public record, while the true ledger remains private and hidden?” Harry taunts, smiling to himself sarcastically as he moves in closer and closer to Ben, drawing a sleek gun tucked at the back of his waistband. Harry waves the weapon carelessly, flicking it lightly with his wrist, tossing its weight from hand to hand as schools his face into an expression of overdramatic contemplation. “Hmm…I _wonder_.”

Ben’s breathing picks up as he watches the firearm swinging around in Harry’s grasp, he backs up slowly, feet shuffling and stumbling uneasily until he is pressed up against the firm wall behind him, trapped. “But, you're just...”

“Oh yes, yes, right…but I'm just an innocent simpleminded investor.” Harry continues smugly yet again, screwing a weighted silencer to the tip of the automatic pistol with practiced ease. “I'm just a polite, rich dimwit willing to through ample amounts money into your dastardly embezzlement schemes...” Harry grins devilishly, a wicked glint in his eye. “ _Or_ am I?” 

Harry pulls the top slide of the gun, clicking the mechanism into place, ready to fire, suppresser attached at the end of the loaded barrel. 

“Who are you?” Ben wonders in horror, shaking his head as he eyes the sleek black gun pointed directly at him, back pressed firmly against the wall. His forehead begins to prickle with small beads of nervous sweat, hands trembling anxiously.

Harry tilts his head in consideration yet again, a wide, grimly cheerful smile spreading slowly across the dark features of his face as he pushes his glasses up into his hair. “My name is Alexandre de la Pailleterie, my friends call me Alex. However, those who know me best of all, call me…Harry Styles.”

“Styles?” Ben gawks, brow furrowed in disbelief.

Right as the recognition falls over Ben’s face, and realization dawns on him, Harry winks mockingly in acknowledgment and pulls back the trigger of his gun, shooting Ben three precise times through the left side of his chest, muted bullets cutting straight through his heart without a sound. Garnet blood seeps heavily through Ben’s once immaculate pressed ivory button-up, his body crumpling terminally to the wood floor.   

“See you in hell.”

 

* * *

 

“Welcome home, _Harry_.”

“Fuck!” Alex jumps, startled as Louis steps out of the dark obscurities of the still room.  “How do you know where I live!? How did you get in here!?”

Louis assumed he would not be expecting anyone to be in his home, especially not at this hour, as it is just reaching six a.m. But he had to talk to him. Louis has needed to talk to him for days and finally mustered up the strength to do something about it. Louis has been an absolute train wreck since their last encounter, completely on edge; it feels like his whole body is raw.

Where was he anyway? At such an odd, early time of day? To be just getting back, appearing to have not yet slept for the night? What could he have been doing? What is he hiding? Why is he so fucking mysterious?

And god, fuck. Without his glasses obscuring his eyes, it’s like his beryl gaze is piercing straight through the center of Louis’ soul. The scruffy hair on his face, and the long cascading locks flowing from his head do absolutely nothing to conceal those distinctive, expressive eyes.

“You’re not the only one with tricks.” Louis answers easily, stepping closer. “And it’s no secret as to where _The_ Alexandre de la Pailleterie lives, your name is the newest gossip on every Stepford Wives’ lips. But of course, you must know that… _Harry_.”

“Why do you still insist on calling me Harry?” Alex scrubs his face in exasperation, sighing heavily. “I’m not Harry, that is not my goddamn name!”

“Well, why do you insist on lying to me?” Louis counters, inching forward. “Why must you continue to deceive me like this, _Harry_?”

“If you don’t stop referring to me as your motherfucking dead ex-lover, I fucking swear, I will file a restraining order against you.” Alex grits against his teeth, backing away from Louis.

“God, Harry please.” Louis begs softly, not wanting to yell or upset him any further. “Just talk to me, I’ll do anything.”

“Fucking dammit! I’m not Harry!” Alex refuses again, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Shit!”

Louis continues to press on. “Yes, you are! I know you are!”

“No, you don’t! You don’t know ANYTHING!” Alex screams, sounding angry and even a touch bitter. “Now get the fuck out of my fucking house!”

“I can’t!” Louis confesses, matching the clamorous pitch of Alex’s shouts. Louis is so hauntingly tired and dreadfully discouraged and he can’t let this go. His mind will not allow him to think of anything else and his body will not permit him to move past this.

“I thought we settled this.” Alex sighs after pausing a moment, voice dropping down to a reserved whisper. “We discussed it, the man you knew is dead. Let it go. I don’t know what else to say to you, but I’m not Harry.” Alex turns to leave, body poised and ready to bolt. “The sooner you believe that, the better off you’ll be.”

“For a moment I believed you. I believed that maybe this could be a twisted coincidence, that maybe you just bear a striking resemblance.” Louis starts softly, head tilted in consideration. “I even tried to excuse the fact that you share similar mannerisms, even though you've obviously developed a new persona who is polite and poised, you still have those little quirks about you, those little idiosyncrasies.”

“Like the way your nose flares slightly when emotion waves over you, the way your feet naturally turn inward when you stand, the way you furrow your brow tightly together in concentration, making that tiny little wrinkle on the bridge of your nose.” Louis continues, eyeing the man before him pointedly. “The way you shake your hair out, just as you always did before, in the same methodical motion. You lean over slightly, tilt your head marginally to the right and card your hands through your curls, shaking them out until they’re perfect again, laying them back down in place exactly the same, every single time.”

Alex just stares at Louis, unmoving, almost unblinking, expression set in a line.

“And for a moment, for a single moment of doubt, I was going to pass all of that off, pass off all those seemingly insignificant physical quirks that I loved so much, just attribute it to my mind seeing what it wants to see. But then...” Louis pauses, looking to Alex wondrously. “Then you said his name.”

Alex shakes his head, finally speaking up. “No, you said his name.”

“I said his first name, yes.” Louis agrees, nodding slowly. “But I never said his surname. You said the name Styles. Not once did I ever utter that name.”

Alex turns away from Louis, starting to slowly retreat away from the conversation.

“Harry please! Wait! Just…”

“What Louis? What do you want from me? What more can I give to you? What more can you take from me?”

“I just...I…” Louis stutters in shock. He thought he was right, nearly a hundred percent sure that the man before him is somehow the same boy who died years ago, but now he knows. He knows for certain that his suspicions where not in vain, that he wasn’t going crazy, that Harry isn’t _dead_. “You're alive...”

“Yes.” 

“But…but how...where were you? Where have you been this entire time?” Louis questions, voice sounding hurt and wounded. “If you weren’t dead, why didn't you come back for me? Why didn’t you-”

“Why didn't you wait!?” Harry screams suddenly, breaking his usually calm reserve as his deep strong voice booms against the walls angrily. “Why didn’t you wait for me!? I was taken from prison and then spent eleven years in captivity and the past year everywhere else you can imagine, I lived through fucking hell!”

“No, no…” Louis breathes out heavily, voice not even a whisper, just a gust of anguished breath falling from his lips. He shakes his head, almost robotically, not knowing what else to do or say.

“While you...” Harry continues, voice strained as if he is trying to keep his emotions at bay. “You just…you just forgot about me...as if I meant nothing to you, as if I were meaningless!” 

“You were never meaningless, I never forgot you, Harry. Never.” Louis lifts his left hand and slowly removes the platinum band from his left ring finger, revealing beneath it the simple tan string Harry tied against his skin so many years ago. “I promised it would never leave my finger and it never has.” 

Harry gasps as he gazes at the weathered thread entwined around Louis’ ring finger, seemingly unable to take his eyes from it, or even dare to respond, just despondently frozen.

“I could never forget.” Louis whispers again softly, starting to move nearer to Harry. “I hear your voice at night, whispering softly in my ear. I feel the lost linger of your touch against my cold tingling skin. I smell your sweet scent, your aura encompasses me. I see the ghost of your figure at every corner, at every turn, day by day. You haunt even my dreams and your presence graces my worst nightmares. Not a single day goes by that I don't mourn for you, that I don't think of you, that I don't miss you, that I don't love you.” 

“Louis…” Harry breathes heavily, voice sounding so very fragile as he closes his eyes slowly.

Louis steps a tad closer, sensing Harry’s guard slowly falling. The reinforced walls and the steel-clad mask that has been up in protection this whole time, guarding his emotions and concealing his feelings, crumbling piece by piece. A silence stretches over them as they simply gaze at each other, so many unanswered questions between them.

“Haz...” Louis whispers, breaking the chilling silence. He doesn't know what to say or what to ask first, so many unknown variables. “I...you...” Louis tries, stammering useless pronouns having no meaning, unattached to a real question. “But, you were...I mean I watched you...” Louis stutters, shaking his head, confounded. “You were stabbed and...”

“I was stabbed…but I didn't die.” Harry replies quietly, breaking Louis’ gaze and shifting his gaze to the floor.

Louis stares at Harry in wordless confusion. He was so certain. Certain that he saw the last traces of life escape Harry’s lips, certain that he witnessed the last puff of breath leave his nostrils.

Slowly Harry unbuttons the row of buttons running down the length of his tailored shirt. He untucks the hem from the waistband of his fitted trousers, sliding it from his shoulders, removing the blouse from his skin completely, dropping it soundlessly to the floor.

His body is so much different than the last time Louis saw it, the softness and subtle pout of his hips replaced with hard lines and tone muscles. The gentle love handles, Louis loved so dearly, completely erased, only dwelling in the recesses of Louis’ memory.

Harry’s frame is fuller and solid, a steady weight about him. He would be physically perfect, an Adonis even, if it wasn't for the angry jagged scars scraping deeply across his abdomen. They aren't smooth, instead harshly serrated, unevenly scabrous, as if never given the chance to heal properly.

Louis gasps sharply as he takes it all in, his eyes not wanting to believe the harrowing state of Harry’s physique.

Harry crumbles in on himself self-consciously at the sound of Louis’ obvious shock, arms encircling his own body in shame. The self-proclaimed confidence he seems to always possess instantly disappears, nowhere to be found, as he now resembles a small scared child. 

“It's...it's ok Harry, don't hide from me.” Louis soothes softly, stepping even closer to Harry as Harry turns away from Louis, revealing his muscled back.

But it's not ok, it’s so far from _ok_.

If Louis thought the worst was already bared, he is horribly mistaken. It is like a violent mural of welts and scratches scaring Harry’s entire back. Faded and un-faded alike, ranging in color and brightness, in length and severity, creating haunting patterns over his skin.

Louis inhales shakily, mouth hanging open, as he surveys the mutilations that surf in hideous waves across the ripples of Harry’s back muscles. He tries so hard to stay strong, to not let his feelings get the best of him, to not upset Harry further. But how can he? How can he remain calm, at the sight of so much raw undeserved pain?

“Don't.” Harry whispers simply, hanging his head, back still facing Louis.

“It's...h-horrible.” Louis chokes out, voice breaking, as he places a hand over his own mouth. Fresh, hot tears brim at his eyes, immediately flowing down his face. He reaches out tentatively to touch the irritated cerise marks eating at Harry's once smooth flesh. 

Harry flinches at the feeling of Louis’ soft careful touch against his bare skin, but he doesn't move away, he allows Louis to touch his poorly healed wounds. 

Louis runs his fingers lightly over the scars, silent tears rolling down his cheeks as he mentally pictures the brutal treatment Harry must have gone through. How did he get these marks? Why? What happened to him? What happened to his boy?

“Baby...” Louis sobs, tragically breathless, water caught in his weak broken voice. He wraps his arms around Harry’s waist from behind, holding him close as he presses his lips against Harry’s marred flesh.

“Don't.” Harry says again softly, feeling Louis' tears against his exposed back. “Don't cry for me, Lou.” 

Harry’s command only serves to break Louis even further, shattering his heart into innumerable microscopic fragments. Louis shakes heavily, his body heaving against Harry’s, squeezing Harry’s middle tightly, never wanting to let go. Never wanting him to ever be hurt again, especially not like this. Not with this amount of blatant cruelty.

If he could, he would take all Harry’s pain away, all the heartache and anguish, and inflict it on himself. He would, he would take it all. It wouldn't even be a question. Louis wonders if it is selfish for him to have rather had Harry die, than to have to see him like this. To see him so damaged, so broken, so abused. 

“Does it h-hurt?” Louis’ voice cracks, raw and pained whimpering sounds escaping his quivering mouth. He presses his lips again to Harry’s torn skin, kissing another one of his wounds in desolate reverence. He only wants to kiss away the pain, to make it all vanish, to make it all fade away.

“I don’t know.” Harry whispers quietly. “I don’t know what pain feels like anymore, pain is always with me, a constant thorn in my side. I can’t feel anything else.”

Harry turns around, still encircled by Louis’ arms around his middle. He gazes down at Louis tenderly, cradling his face in his hands, wiping his tears away with the pads of his thumbs. “Oh, please don't cry, my love. I cannot bear to see your beautiful face in pain. I hate it.”

Louis tries his best to stop crying, to sooth the sobs that rake his body, but it's like he has been holding it all in for the past twelve years. He cried for days when he was told Harry died. He couldn't stop if he wanted to. And when he finally did stop, he was empty, he had been wrung dry, void of basic emotion, a shell of himself. And now, knowing that not only is Harry alive, but that he went through hell, a living hell on earth, stripped of his basic human rights, stripped of his dignity, stripped of the skin on his back, stripped of every possible thing, is too much for his already traumatized heart to bear.

Louis can't stop the tears, he can’t stop the trembling of his downcast lips, he can't stop the shaking of his hands, he can’t stop the throbbing of his heart, he can't stop his mind from reeling wildly. He just can't. 

“Please.” Harry begs softly, gazing down at Louis earnestly, gently stroking his face. “Don't cry for me. What's done is done.”

Louis closes his eyes and shakes his head, sniffling heavily and sucking in staggered, choked breaths. He brushes his unsteady hands over the scars that taint and twist over Harry’s chest.

There is evidence. Visible, tangible evidence of the past twelve years. Like a twisted roadmap of suffering charted out across Harry’s taut body. Every laceration, every burn, every slash, every whip, Louis can see it, he can see it all. He can almost hear the cries; he can almost hear the screams that match the scars. And it's deafening. A piercing, unbearable ringing in his ears.

Harry pulls Louis’ shuddering body against his naked chest, placing his hand behind Louis’ head and holding him close. Harry runs his fingers soothingly through Louis’ hair, caressing his scalp.

All Louis can do is close his eyes and breathe Harry in as tears roll down his face. The lost scent of his skin is intoxicating, but at the same time completely foreign. The Harry Louis knew so many years ago, the Harry he loved with his entire being, the Harry that died, he smelled of soft petals, of innocent sweat. Pure and sweet and untainted by the cruelties of the world. 

This Harry, this broken man in his arms, he smells of pain, he smells of bloodstained tears and wrongful, inflicted blemishes of heartbreak. He smells of defeat, of loss, of agony, of hopeless desperation.

Louis pulls back and searches Harry’s eyes, searching for anything, for answers, for the secrets Harry has locked deep inside. He just...he needs to know. He can’t wrap his mind around what could have happened to his beautiful bright eyed boy. Harry was held in captivity for over a decade, for what? Why? He was innocent, he did no wrong. Although it physically broke him in half to think about, Louis could understand the concept of Harry being killed in prison. Those things unfortunately happen among prison inmates, but to know that his life was prolonged, that he suffered further and was brutally tortured, he just can not process that concept.

Louis gazes upon Harry’s face beseechingly, eyes wet and cloudy. “Help me understand Harry. Please...I just need to know.” 

Harry holds Louis’ gaze for a while, staring deeply into Louis’ questioning eyes before suddenly colliding their mouths together in a desperate, stolen kiss. It's filled with need and anguish and yearning and all the deprived passion of a lost love. Louis feels as though Harry is wanting to speak to him though his earnest kiss, to depart on him, wordlessly, all he holds inside. But before Louis can process or understand a single thing, Harry breaks away abruptly.

“I'm sorry...I'm so sorry…I shouldn't have...I just...” Harry shakes his head repeatedly, cheeks flushed, lips still parted from the purloined kiss. He immediately releases Louis from his embrace, stepping away from Louis' deeply confused expression. “You should go...”

“No, Harry. No.” Louis pleads breathlessly, attempting to close the distance Harry is keeping between them. “Please don't shut me out. Please don’t push me away. I just want to know what happened to you, love. Help me understand, please.” 

Harry remains silent, gazing at the floor, resembling once again a small broken child. Louis can see him brooding, see his brain whirling with answers and ideas and thoughts but he remains wordless.

“Who did this to you, Harry?” Louis tries again gently though his veil of tears, not pushing too hard. “Please just tell me that much. Who hurt you?”

Harry lifts his head impossibly slow, expression creased with consideration. The raw pain that lays latent behind his eyes flashes to the forefront, a disturbing darkness waving over his features in a swift motion. The mask he has been wearing since Louis met him, again returns, shrouding him in cold stone and unmoving ice.

“Ask your husband.” 

 

* * *

 

_“Moral wounds have this peculiarity - they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_


	5. Act V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis' POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello :)  
> thank you once again to all of you who have been supporting this fic, i always love a good, passionate tumblr message about how i simultaneously ruined and made someone's day :)) thank you all so very much for reading :)
> 
> well this Act has a lot going on and its pretty long at 12K, maybe a bit emotionally exhausting buuuutttttt i hope you all enjoy it! :)

** Act V **

 

_“If you wish to discover the guilty person, first find out to whom the crime might be useful.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_

 

* * *

 

 

Never in all his life, has Louis driven so recklessly. Flying across the interstate, eyes blurry behind the lenses of his overpriced sunglasses, hands shaking violently around the steering wheel, foot pressed firmly against the gas pedal, propelling his chrome Ferrari 458 Spider far faster than legally advised.

He needs to get home. Not only that, he needs to get home and talk to his husband. Louis needs to talk to Zayn.

He has absolutely no idea what to expect, Louis has been kept in the dark for so long. Does Zayn know that Harry never died? Does Zayn know that Alex is Harry in disguise? Does he know all that Harry suffered? Did he help in the process? Did he…could he have possibly…tortured Harry all this time?

The idea alone is enough for Louis to pull over along the side of the highway, jumping out of his car to expel the inside of his stomach on the curb of the road.

Louis heaves repeatedly as high definition flashbacks of Harry’s scars resurface to the vanguard of his mind. He sucks in a lungful of oxygen, wiping his mouth before getting back into his luxury sports car. Louis drives madly, not stopping until he reaches the guarded gates of his estate.

A constant assault of unanswered, bothersome questions buzz through Louis’ mind as he hops out of his car, leaving the door wide open without giving a single fuck. Surely, one of their many staff members would tend to it anyway. Louis storms up the grand marble steps of the exquisite, far too large mansion he calls home.

“Zayn!” Louis shouts, barreling through the doorway, scrubbing at his wet eyes angrily under his glasses as his poignant voice carries through the numerous halls. “Zayn! Zayn, where the fuck-”

“Um…Master Louis.” One of the butlers calls softly, sounding a tad uneasy approaching Louis in his state of obvious distress.

Louis spins around wildly, yanking off the Prada gold rimmed shades that frame his face, throwing them against the glistening floor beneath his feet with such livid force that they shatter across the ground.

The butler’s eyes widen as he clears his throat. “Um...excuse me, pardon my intrusion sir, but I believe that um…Master Zayn is out in the gardens for his morning tea.”

Although rude and uncharacteristic of him usually, Louis doesn’t even bother to thank his staff for the insider information. Instead he takes off through the halls of the mansion, knocking over whatever lies in his path, refusing to slow down or stop until he reaches the back patio door leading out onto the veranda. He steps outside, looking to his left and right, scanning the area madly.

“ZAAAYN!” Louis screams raucously, his body starting up a new wave of hard, pounding sobs. He feels himself losing it, he feels the uncertainty and the unknowing, weighing heavily on him. Louis drags his fingers against his un-kept hair, not caring how dreadful and horrid he probably looks.

“I’m in the garden, love.” Zayn beckons sweetly, voice drafting through the breeze, as calm as can be, unbeknown to the ample distress of his husband. “Come join me for tea. I’m having your favorite. It’s such a lovely morning, and the weather is simply beautiful.”

Louis follows the syrupy sound of Zayn’s calm voice, trying to walk while also trying to cease the tears falling from his eyes. He finds Zayn at his usual spot in the large picturesque garden, sitting peacefully at a small glass table, His legs are crossed, a novel of sorts perched on his lap, a full tea spread laid out before him on the circular tabletop.

They are surrounded by sea of resplendent roses. Blood red roses. Scarlet petals bright and crimson, matching the fiery red flashing in Louis' eyes, matching the rage boiling under his skin, matching the angry lacerations obscuring Harry’s flesh, matching the undeniable hurt, matching the bloodshed and betrayal. 

Seeming to have heard Louis’ steps, Zayn looks up from his book, instantly alarmed by the sight of his distraught spouse. Zayn drops his book without hesitation and stands to his feet. “Oh baby, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Zayn attempts to wrap his arms around Louis’ still trembling frame, but Louis pulls away, shaking his head, rubbing at his eyes again before casting his gaze down to the cobblestone ground beneath them.

He doesn’t want to be touched, or held or comforted. Louis doesn’t want soft words or worried looks, he wants answers and he wants them… _NOW_.

“Lou?” Zayn asks softly, tone etched in worry. “Please talk to me, why are you so upset, babe?”

“Harry is alive.”

“What?” Zayn questions, sounding as though he doesn’t think he heard Louis correctly.

“Harry. Is. Alive.” Louis spits through his teeth, enunciating each word as he meets Zayn’s eyes angrily.

Zayn shakes his head in outwardly genuine disbelief, brow furrowed in confusion.

“You told me he was fucking DEAD!” Louis yells blamefully, accusation laced in his words.

Zayn continues moving his head from side to side. “Because he is dead! Or…I thought he was dead! I thought that-”

“No Zayn! No! Fuck!” Louis shouts furiously. “He’s alive! You watched me suffer! You watched me scatter his ashes in mourning and cry myself to sleep for years and he is fucking alive!”

“I thought he was dead!” Zayn tries again honestly, tone uneven. “I…I didn’t…”  

Louis sniffles heavily, running his hands through his limp hair. “And….and…I just…fucking shit!”

“Louis, I…I didn’t…I mean I…” Zayn stammers out, his complexion rapidly blanching as he repeatedly shakes his head in shock

Louis pauses, squinting his wet eyes at Zayn, tiling his head, considering. “Zayn…why do you sound…guilty?”

“I…Lou…I…” Zayn stutters again, eyes wide and alarmed. “I never…um…”

“Zayn. Why…do…you…sound…guilty?” Louis repeats again slowly, his heart picking up its pace again, chest hyper-expanding.

“Babe, you have to understand that I never wanted to hurt you, and that I-”

“Answer the fucking question Zayn!” Louis screams at the top of his feeble lungs. “What the fuck aren’t you telling me!?”

Zayn remains frozen, standing completely motionless before Louis, appearing irrevocably stunned.

Louis inhales a deep and mighty breath, closing his eyes for a minute in self-soothing. “Alright then, since you don’t want to talk on your own, I’m going to ask you a series of questions and I need you to answer them. All of them. Truthfully.” Louis instructs, calming his tone of voice, standing up a little straighter and quieting his breathing.

Zayn’s wide eyes meet Louis’ as he nods his head slowly in acknowledgement.

“And don’t you dare fucking lie to me!” Louis threatens voice picking up again. “I’ve been married to you for ten years! I know when you’re lying and I know when you’re guilty. Don’t even try to bullshit me!”

Zayn nods again, still not forming any words of his own.

“Did you know that Harry was alive?” Louis asks first, watching Zayn’s every move carefully.

“No.” Zayn answers quietly.

Louis squints his eyes, expression hard and serious. “Do you know where he has been all this time?”

“No.”

Louis pauses a moment before moving on. “Did you have Harry brutally beaten and tortured?”

“What? No! Fuck! I didn't!” Zayn jumps to answer, suddenly coming back to himself. “I swear to you that I didn't! I would never torture him! I thought he was dead, same as you! I fucking swear it!”

“You honestly thought he was dead?” Louis asks again for more clarification.

“Yes! I knew no better! That's what I was told!”

“That’s what you were told?” Louis echoes in bewilderment.

“Yes, by the police. They told me he had been shanked by a fellow inmate and that he was dead.” Zayn defends. “I later received the surveillance footage, which _you_ saw, with your own eyes, confirming his death.”

“So…you’re saying that you had nothing to do with him being wrongly accused?”

Zayn lets out a long breath, hanging his head. He runs his hands through his dark hair. “Well I...um...I…” 

“God, what the fuck Zayn, that is not a hard question! You either had something to do with it or you didn’t!” Louis raises his voice again, frustration levels rising rapidly. “Fucking answer me now!”

“I...just...Louis, please.” Zayn begs, eyes piteous.

“Zayn.” Louis utters, voice strict and cold, eyes rampant. “Fucking answer me now or I swear to god-”

“Yes.” Zayn blurts out abruptly. “Ok, yes. Yes, I helped to frame him...but I didn't...I mean, it wasn't meant to...I just...”

Louis’ mouth falls open, feet stumbling backwards as he feels the meaning of Zayn’s words hit the innards of his core. He shakes his head slowly, disbelievingly. He doesn’t even know what to think, or what to feel. He feels betrayal, he feels remorse, he feels guilt.

Suddenly, the last memory he had of Harry before all this shit, comes flooding back to Louis’ mind. Harry was screaming and shouting at him about Zayn, about not believing him, about not trusting him, about everything not being as it seemed. But Louis had suppressed all those memories, far too painful to think about after Harry passed. After Harry was wrongly taken from him.

“You...” Louis starts, head still shaking in incredulity, clutching a hand to his chest.

“Louis, wait please! It's not what you think.” Zayn tries to come closer, to comfort Louis, to wrap his arms around him and console him. 

“Not what I think?!” Louis shouts, slapping Zayn’s outstretched imploring arms away from him. “Don’t fucking touch me! Don’t you dare try to fucking touch me!” He spits hatefully. “You fucking tore Harry from me and-”

“I did it for you!” Zayn bellows passionately.

“What?!” Louis screams, eyes practically bulging out of his head with rage, his mind utterly blown. “Why the fuck would I ever ask for that?! Why would I fucking ask you to ruin the life of the person I loved the most in this cruel world?! Why the fuck Zayn!?”

“I did it because I loved you!” Zayn shouts emotionally. “I've always loved you!”

Louis is on the verge of passing out, his head is spinning with such insufferable rapidity that he may have an aneurism. Louis firmly presses his hands against the sides of his temples, closing his eyes. “Oh my god.”

“Ever since we were young, I loved you Lou. It's always been you. And I just…” Zayn shakes his head earnestly, eyes misty and unguarded. “I would do anything for you. Anything at all. I was always so jealous of Harry because he had you. It was almost effortless for him. He was all you ever saw.”

Zayn tosses his hands up, laughing self-depreciatingly through his tears. “And Harry...he didn't even come from much, nothing really to call his own in the world. I mean, he was basically an orphan, a fucking charity case, but somehow despite all that, despite having literally nothing, he had the one thing I could never have.” Zayn looks to Louis openly, expression raw. “Your heart.”

“In most eyes, I had everything. My family is absurdly rich, I never wanted for a single thing. I never had to struggle. I had it all, or so it seemed.” Zayn elucidates despondently. “But really, all I ever wanted was you.”

“Even before you and Harry truly got together as a couple, he was all you saw, all you paid attention to. No matter what we were doing or where we were going, it was always about Harry.” A darkness passes over Zayn’s features briefly, old feelings resurfacing. “And I _hated_ it. I hated it so much. Although I loved him, I grew to resent Harry for it. I knew it wasn’t his fault and that I was probably being irrational, but I just wanted you to notice me. I thought maybe if I could get you to notice me, maybe if Harry was out of the picture for a bit...maybe you'd come to love me.” 

“God, Lou...” Zayn looks up at the bright, clear blue sky, water tracking down his cheeks. “We were so similar, basically one in the same, soulmates even. But you didn't... you didn’t fucking see it! And it didn't make any fucking sense! You should have loved me first! You never should have been his! You should have always been mine from the very beginning!” 

Louis breathes heavily, fingertips still digging into his temples. “You did this...because...” He shakes his head at a loss, finally speaking up. “Because you loved me?” 

“Yes. I did.” Zayn affirms softly, inclining his body towards Louis. “I loved you so much, I still do. I’ll always love you, Louis.”

Louis can’t form sentences, his train of thought completely off its tracks. He rubs the sides of his head manically, pacing to and fro across the courtyard of the garden, breathing erratic and dreadfully uneven. “How?”

“How what?”

“How did this happen?” Louis stops pacing to glare at Zayn incredulously. “What did you do?”

“Well…I…um…I framed Harry and got him convicted, or I went along with it.” Zayn starts, blowing out a gust of air. “Simon pressured me. He had been embezzling money from different clients for years, hiding the money in offshore accounts in random countries in Europe, putting Blackstone at risk and going behind my father’s unsuspecting back. Over that summer, when Harry and I came here for the internship, I ended up finding out about the whole Ponzi scheme on accident. I also found out that some major, key clients were starting to suspect something was not adding up with the books. They started to report Blackstone to the authorities and requested an immediate investigation be initiated.”

“So to cover his own ass, Simon used what I knew against me and basically forced me to find a way to cover up his mess, otherwise he threatened to hang the whole ordeal on me.” Zayn continues grimly. “And I was so fucking scared, I mean…I was just a kid, nineteen and fucking stupid. I didn’t know what to do and Simon knew that. He knew how naïve I was, how much I just wanted to impress my father.”

“At first I thought about going above his head and ratting him out to my father, thinking maybe I could earn his respect that way.” Zayn admits sadly, looking down at the cobblestone. “But then I realized he would never believe me, he trusted Simon far more than he ever dreamed of trusting me. He's never believed me, he's only ever believed facts and numbers and what he can see.”

“And I had no real hard evidence to give him and Simon kept telling me that it was the only way my father would finally come to respect me. That if I didn’t make this go away my father would hate me and disown me and I was young and dumb and I believed everything he said. I was manipulated and I believed all the bullshit.”

“You know I always struggled with that, with being accepted by him and shit.” Zayn hangs his head dejectedly. “I always wanted to impress my father, gain his approval, make him happy…and maybe…make him believe in me for once. And Simon polluted my weak desperate mind, fed me lies I was too blind to doubt, too inexperienced to doubt. I couldn’t bear the thought of my father looking down on me with disappointment, skeptical of the capabilities of his only son, his heir.”  

“So I…I offered up Harry instead.” Zayn admits solemnly, wringing his hands together uncomfortably. “I helped Simon pin it all on him, every single thing. I helped embed files in his computer that linked him to the embezzlement claims and the offshore accounts and have him locked up, acquitting any fraud against Blackstone itself.”

“I didn't know the whole deal with the company, at the time, I didn't know there was more at stake, more at play. Simon kept me in the dark and I was foolish enough to fall for it.” Zayn continues remorsefully. “I gave him a scapegoat and then sat back quietly.” 

“But…I was gonna help get him out of jail eventually, really…I was.” Zayn adds honestly. “You know…try to exonerate him and everything. But then, when Harry was actually in prison…I just…I got selfish. For once, I had you all to myself and it was finally just you and me...and I…I liked it.” Zayn admits honestly, gazing at Louis. “So I didn’t rush to prove his innocence, thought maybe a few years wouldn’t hurt. I justified myself in my head, over and over, told myself I was doing the right thing. I guess…I hoped that by then you would have seen me. Truly seen me…and then maybe…loved me.”

“But then…when I got news of his death after only a few weeks of being in prison...I…” Zayn trails off at a loss. “Louis…I was just as shocked and sad, I swear. I never wanted to hurt Harry, not like that. I swear on my life that I didn’t know. I truly thought he had died in jail.”

“And I didn't know what to do with that amount of guilt, my conscience weighed heavily with the thought of his death and how it never would have happened if it wasn’t for my stupidity.” Zayn drags his fingers through his hair, looking up at the California sky again. “But…you were here and you were alone and scared and heartbroken and I just...I thought…I thought maybe it was providence. As wrong as that sounds, I thought that…maybe it was meant to be. Maybe, I'd actually have you in the end.” 

“And Louis…” Zayn’s voice breaks, saltwater staining his face in soft waves. “Fuck, Louis…you've made me so happy. I’ve loved every single day we've been together. Babe, I love you. I'll never stop loving you. You have to believe me, Lou. I truly love you so much. I've never lied about that; it was always real. Always.” 

Louis stands motionless for several moments, mind attempting to process all that he just heard, trying to make sense of all the shit he’s just found out. “But it wasn't just for me…”

“Ok…yes.” Zayn nods his head slowly. “Initially I wanted to please Simon so that I could impress my father and gain his approval, gain his respect. So that he would trust me and shit…but I mean, look...I'm second to Simon now, my father is dead, so when Simon retires it will all be mine. All be ours actually. Because everything I have is yours. It's all for you Louis. All of my actions were done out of love. Honest love for you.” 

“For me? For _me_!?” Louis raises his voice again, arms lifted and waving manically as he shouts. “But what if I don't want all of this Zayn!? What if I never did!?” 

“Babe, don't say that.” Zayn takes a small step closer to Louis. “You don’t mean it…you don’t.”

“I just...” Louis doesn't know what to believe anymore, it's all too much, a shock to the system. All he's been told, all he knows is a lie, a hurtful sham. A web of never ending untruths and he is at the center of it. The love of his life, his everything, was taken from him and somehow he found a way to keep breathing, to keep moving forward. Louis put all he had left into building his relationship with Zayn, into creating a sound, solid marriage.

And now to find out that his marriage sits on a throne of lies, the foundation rooted in a slippery slope of deceit. How can they survive this? How can anything be the same after this? After all he’s heard? After all he’s seen?

“Fuck.” Louis exhales, sliding into a white garden chair as he legs can longer support him. He stares at the ruby roses blossoming in front of him. In this light, in this angle, it almost looks as through they are bleeding. The dew of the morning, rolling off the soft scarlet petals in perfect droplets, seeming to absorb the deep cherry tint of the rosettes, casting beads of red bleeding liquid.

Bleeding love.

Zayn proceeds to crowd Louis’ space, hovering anxiously over his seated, slouched figure. “Louis, talk to me please love…”

Harry is alive. Zayn has lied to him for the past twelve years about what he did. Louis has been married to a liar for the past ten years. And through all those years Harry has been alive and breathing somewhere and Louis was none the wiser.

“Twelve. Years.” Louis spits bitterly towards the ground, mind rapidly questioning his entire existence. “You have lied to me for twelve fucking years…” Louis lifts his head heavily, teary eyes meeting Zayn’s. “Was it real? Was any of it real?”

It almost feels the same as when he found out Harry was dead. That same constricting and stopping of his vital organs making it hard to stand, hard to function, hard to breathe. Extremities growing numb, useless, and futile. Cognizance fluctuating between trancelike states, unable to pinpoint reality. Louis can't take this, his body physically can not take any more of this high impact stress. He is losing it.

“Lou, babe…please. It was always real, I promise. I love you, I do…I love you with everything.” Zayn begs, bring his arms up in another attempt to wrap Louis in a warm apologetic embrace. “I’m so sorry, love. I-”

“Don’t.” Louis closes his eyes, trying to find his center of gravity, find something to ground him, something he can cling to and hold on to for dear life. Louis raises a single warning hand up to silence Zayn’s pleas. “I really don’t want to be touched right now, least of all by you.”  

Louis suddenly feels incredibly nauseous again, flashes of Harry’s scars searing the foreground of his mind. He caused those scars, essentially. It feels like he might as well have been the person who physically inflicted them. Louis starts to dry heave uncontrollably, body trembling violently. 

Louis senses that Zayn is talking to him again or trying to talk to him, but all he hears is white noise. He looks up to see lips moving, expression pleading, eyes agonizing, all directed at him. But Louis has nothing to say, he doesn’t know what to believe right now.

“Please baby.” Zayn whispers miserably, tone desolate. “I can’t lose you.”

Shaking his head, Louis looks away from Zayn and cradles his tearstained face in his arms, resting weakly on his lap, body still shuddering.

He needs to know what Harry went though, what he suffered because of him. Of course, deep down Louis knows it's not his fault, all of this can not be attributed solely to him, that many other factors and forces played a role in all this. But, right now, that's how it feels.

It feels like Louis is rooted in the center of the conflict, at the very heart of this twisted, unfortunate love triangle. He is the reason Zayn didn't try harder to prove Harry’s innocence before, a key part of the reason Zayn allowed Harry to be wrongly accused in the first place. Somehow it feels as though Harry would never have gone through all this shit, if it wasn’t for Louis. 

“Um, so sorry to…well bother you but…Master Zayn?” One of the butlers questions weakly, voice quiet, slowly approaching the distraught couple.

 Zayn doesn’t respond to the polite calling of his own name, still staring hopelessly at Louis, trying to will his husband to answer him.

“Excuse me, sir?” The butler tries again softly, sounding like he would rather not be intruding, like he would rather flee the tense scene before him.

“Yes! What!? What the fuck is it?!” Zayn shouts angrily, fists clenched tightly at his sides. “Can’t you see that I’m obviously busy!”

The butler looks taken aback, eyes darting nervously. “Um yes…sorry sir. It’s just that I’ve been told to inform you that there is a…um…highly important matter that urgently needs your attention at Blackstone.”

“Well it can fucking wait! I don’t give a flying fuck!” Zayn screams irately, lifting his arms. “Leave us the fuck alone!”

The butler starts to retreat backwards in surrender, but stops, slowly forcing himself to speak up again. “Uh...but…uh Master Zayn…it’s um…”

Louis scrubs his hands over his face again, body still caved in on himself, trying desperately to take in oxygen to his deprived lungs. He just can’t breathe. He needs to get out of here. He can’t deal with any of this anymore. He hates hearing about Zayn’s work and even more so now. All it serves to do is make Louis strain harder to oxygenate his panicked body.

Zayn once again ignores the butler’s calls, still giving his full attention to his hunched over, shaking spouse, talking to him softly. “Louis, are you alright? Please answer me babe.”

“It’s…uh…in regards to Ben Winston, sir.” The butler continues timidly.

Zayn twists around suddenly, facing the properly suited staff member. “What the fuck about Winston!?”

“Well…uh...” The butler jumps at Zayn’s harsh tone, casting his gaze briefly to Louis, before looking down at his polished shoes. “He’s dead.”

Louis hops up from his seated position instantly, not wanting to hear another fucking word. He is so gone. Enough is enough. And in this case, enough is far too much.

“What?” Zayn gasps breathlessly in earnest confusion, before noticing Louis on his feet, navigating his way out of the gardens. “Fuck, Louis wait! Please! Shit! Babe!” Zayn rambles, alternating between cursing and pleading for Louis to stop running.

But Louis doesn’t stop, he can’t stop, as Zayn continues to cry his name urgently. He can’t be here right now; he feels like he is suffocating. Rather, Louis _is_ suffocating.

“FUUUCK!” Louis hears Zayn scream deafeningly, voice wafting around him as he storms through the wide halls of their mansion. But even the upsetting sounds of his husband’s world falling apart doesn’t deter Louis from running straight out of the front door of their estate.

Louis looks frantically at the empty wide circular driveway, his car nowhere to be seen. “Where the fuck is my damn car!?” Louis shouts in exasperation, pulling at the roots of his hair. His heart is beating out of his chest, too rapid to count, to measure. Louis is on the verge of another panic attack, three seconds from climbing to the top of this goddamn mansion and flinging his body off of the towering rooftops.

“It’s parked in the garage, Master Louis.” Another serviceman informs, trying to be helpful. “Would you like me to bring it around for you?”

Louis takes off towards the massive garage on the far edge of the estate, running like his life depends on it. Maybe it does. Louis doesn’t have time for this, he just needs to get away from this godforsaken place. He needs to get away from his own thoughts, from all the noise, from all the lies, from Zayn, from everything. It’s all too much.

Louis angrily punches in the passcode for their ostentatious garage, the wide door opening to reveal row upon row of pristine, perfectly maintained luxury vehicles. He storms over to the large wall of numerous key fobs hanging in a meticulously organized manner, he grabs the first one he reaches and clicks madly on the buttons, watching as a jet black Lamborghini Aventador unlocks and beeps in response. The slick doors of the sporty vehicle butterflying upwards.

Louis throws his body in the car, starting up the engine, almost before he truly sits down in the plush leather seat. Furiously, he slams his foot down against the gas pedal, zooming off. He doesn’t know where he is going, he just knows he is going, driving wildly down the long extended driveway and out of the tall gates of the property to anticipated freedom.

He drives for what feels like eternity, channeling his anxious energy into the wheel as he drives everywhere and nowhere. Louis hits the Pacific Coast Highway, zipping along the Malibu coastline, he drives through the city, cruising through the streets of Los Angeles, starting and stopping in bustling traffic until he eventually gives up, not finding any comfort in hyper-active L.A. routes. Louis pulls over his car along an unpopulated, undeveloped street, the heavy tints of his windows shielding him from the outside world.

Louis collapses his head against the matte black steering wheel, completely letting go of everything, of himself, of his ranging emotions. Letting himself truly feel; feel for the first time what he hasn’t allowed himself to in so long. He’s suppressed everything inside, deep deep inside, and his head is spinning. This morning has been a nonstop assault against his will, against his sanity.

Louis cries bitterly, thinking about the hurtful lies he upheld as truthful reality and he screams sorrowfully, remembering every day he had to force himself to keep going, to keep breathing.

Louis shrieks frantically, reliving through the never-ending nightmare of anguished groundless mourning and he shouts angrily, over the fact that the entire life he has led thus far was all in vain, all worthless, not even real.

Louis sobs forlornly, as he is plagued with the vision of what Harry has turned into, what his life has been forced to become and he weeps tragically, for all Harry has unjustifiably lost.

Harry.

God, Harry. The true victim in these hateful charades. What right does he even have to Harry anymore? What claim can Louis stake to his name? None really. Louis feels as though he isn’t even worthy to look upon Harry’s face anymore, for all he will find in the viridian glow of Harry’s eyes is his own guilt and shame.

But yet, all Louis wants to do right now is see Harry, just talk to him. Louis is a hot fucking mess, but he will never have any peace if he doesn’t know what truly happened to Harry during the past twelve years. Not that there was ever any hope of Louis having a moment’s peace ever again.

Louis starts up his car, navigating across streets and interstates until he pulls up at Harry’s enormous house. Torn within himself, Louis sits in the sports car, staring at the exquisite home, deliberating whether he should go inside or not.

Harry probably hates him. Probably wants nothing more than to see Louis dead on the street. Well no, that can’t be completely true, Harry kissed him this morning, _really_ kissed him, with so much passion and uninhibited desire, profound fervor pouring against his lips.

So, maybe there is still something there? Maybe?

But then again, Harry could have just been caught up in the raw emotion of the strained moment, past feelings wavering over him in a fleeting instant of weakness and he really could still fucking hate Louis. This is some heavy fucking shit, twelve years worth of it. Harry has plenty cause to hate Louis. Right now, Louis even hates himself.

Ugh, but then, if Harry hates him, he should apologize right? Explain himself, or something…or shit?

Or should he just run?

No, he shouldn’t run, that’d be stupid. Run where? To whom? To what? No, he can’t run. He can’t.

He can’t?

Or?

But?

Maybe?

“Shit! Fuck!” Louis yells in frustration, slapping his own face. “Pull yourself together Louis, goddammit!” Louis slams his head against the wheel, trying to psych himself up for this. “Fucking fuck, fuck…FUCK!”

Ten minutes later, following incessant profane screaming at his dashboard, Louis finds himself slowly ascending the grand stair case to the wide modern front door. After staring at the mahogany finish of the door for several more minutes, Louis finally musters up the strength to actually ring the silver doorbell.

Several more minutes of silence pass and Louis simultaneously has the urge to ring the bell again while also to just flee, run away and never look back. Harry never has to know that he came by, he’s probably better off not knowing.

Plus, Harry might not even be home. For all Louis knows he could be out checking off names on his hit list. Honestly, Louis wouldn't blame him, not after the shit he's heard. And what’s worse is that he probably doesn't know the half of it, which only serves to give Louis chills.

“Decided not to break in this time?” 

Louis jumps, surprised. In all his panic, he didn’t even register that the door had opened. He didn’t realize that Harry, dressed in a comfy black hoodie, with his hair tied up in a lopsided messy bun, had opened the door and finally made an appearance. That just proves yet again, how jumbled Louis’ mess of a mind is. Harry must think Louis is so pathetic, with ruddy raw skin, bloodshot watery eyes, and disheveled hair sticking out in all directions atop his head. On the inside, Louis feels a million times worse than how he looks on the outside.

“I...” Louis tries, but nothing is coming out of his mouth. He is so appallingly overwhelmed, emotions stimulated to levels he never dared dream. “I…um…Zayn told me that he…that he…and I...” Louis trails off again, averting his eyes, sensing a lump in his throat as Zayn’s words come back to memory again. “Shit…I just…I don't know what I'm doing here…and I don't know what to think…or even what to say really but…I'm so fucking confused and conflicted and I...I just…I’m sorry that…um I mean…I…” Louis’ sentence fades away open ended as he doesn’t know what he is truly trying to convey.

Harry stares at his bare feet in silence, rocking slightly on his toes nervously before slowly lifting his head to meet Louis’ questioning red-rimmed eyes. They gaze at each other in silence, Louis feeling paralyzed under the magnitude of Harry’s gaze, almost as if he is peering into his tormented soul.

Harry lets out a decisive breath, turning away from the wide door frame and retreating back into the house. He leaves the door open behind him, silently permitting Louis into his house.

Louis pauses a moment before following Harry through the house, taking a good look around at how immaculately furnished the large space is. He hadn’t really paid much attention to it earlier, in all his haste to uncover Harry’s real identity; but now Louis can see that it is quite an exquisite home.

Unlike his own over the top mansion, Harry’s house has a modern feel to it, a contemporary design to the architecture. The open rooms are decorated flawlessly with sleek furniture, sharp edges, deep dark wood, reflective steel and pristine glass.

Louis wonders briefly if Harry decorated it himself or not. Maybe he should ask. Or is that weird? This whole situation is weird, if Louis is being honest. His husband vengefully screwed over his own best friend who also happened to be the man whom should have become Louis’ husband and now after twelve years of lies and deceit and alleged death and unforeseen resurrection, Louis is standing in the middle of said man’s kitchen.

Actually, that’s not weird at all, that is utterly fucked up.

“Do you…like…want anything?” Harry asks randomly, turning around to face Louis.

“What?” Louis doesn’t think he is properly understanding the question, face morphing in perplexity.

“Like water or…” Harry spins around the kitchen space and opens the massive stainless steel refrigerator, looking though its contents. “Or um…I have beer? Oh, and vodka…but…maybe that’s a bit much? Yeah.”

“Oh.” Louis exhales in understanding, adjusting his expression. “Um…I’m good, thanks.”

Harry frowns, biting his bottom lip apprehensively and wrinkling his forehead with the scrunch of his brow. “Tea?”

“Um…well…ok.” Louis shrugs in a gauchely agreeing kind of way. “Tea is good.”

Why does this feel so foreign and awkward? As if Harry is some kind of stranger to him. Well, maybe he is. There is so much he doesn’t know about Harry, so much that Harry doesn’t know about him. They are strangers of sorts. Which is horrible because there was once a time when Louis knew Harry better than he knew himself. A time when he could much sooner pick out Harry’s hand than identify his own.

Louis perches himself on one of the tall chrome barstools along the side bench of the counter, watching as Harry sets about the kitchen preparing tea. Harry apparently already had a kettle on the stove so he pours the steaming hot water into a white mug.

“Um…I didn’t tell him…I mean I…” Louis starts, stumbling over his muddled words, again unsure of what he is trying to say. “I didn’t tell Zayn…that um…Alex is you… or that you are Alex…or…um yeah but…I mean…he may figure it out…”

Harry remains silent, concentrating on the task before him of properly preparing Louis’ tea, making it just how Louis likes it. No sugar, just the right amount of milk. Not too much as not to down out the simple flavor of the tea, and not too little, otherwise it’s useless; just a precise and perfect ratio of tea to milk.

Louis can’t help but feel deeply touched that even after all this time, Harry hasn’t forgotten such a trivial thing as Louis’ specific tea preference. Such an altogether small gesture in the grand scheme of things, but still to Louis it feels… _huge_.

Harry sets the hot mug down in front of Louis, picking up his on already prepared cup, walking around the counter to sit next to Louis on an adjacent barstool.

They sit in borderline unbearable silence, sipping soundlessly on their hot beverages. Louis tries peaking at Harry out of the corner of his eye, trying not to be obvious or awkward but he is pretty sure Harry has noticed his curious glances. But he can’t help it. Harry is living and breathing and sitting less than an arms distance away from him.

Louis wants to scream about how much he fucking missed Harry, every little detail about him. His dimpled smile, his warm embrace, his comforting deep voice, just _him_.

And Louis wonders if maybe Harry missed him too. Or if maybe Harry thought about him from time to time. Or if Harry was ever lonely.

Well, fuck. Of course he was lonely, who did he even have with him in captivity? Most likely no one. God knows what Harry did for all that time alone. Louis can’t imagine what kind of damage has been done to Harry’s psyche.

“Did you kill Ben?” Louis blurts all of sudden, having the strong urge and dire need to fill the silence wafting between them. Mentally, he curses himself repeatedly. Of all the questions he could have asked, why the fuck did that one come out first? When will he learn to bite his tongue and keep his fucking mouth shut?

Never, obviously.

Shit, this was such a bad idea. It’s not too late to leave, just call it a day and abandon ship. Honestly, what is Louis even doing here? What does he expect will happen? Technically he has no business being here and of even more importance, technically he is married.

“Yes.” Harry answers honestly, not batting a single eyelash.

Louis stares at Harry openly, studying his calm stoic face, not a single trace of remorse. “And that doesn’t…I don’t know? Make you feel something inside? Anything?”

Harry remains silent for a moment, before setting his mug down and twisting his body around on his stool to face Louis.

“Louis, I spent a large portion of my life as a hostage, a helpless prisoner. The people who held me captive had no regard for human life whatsoever. I have seen and heard countless things that I wish desperately not to remember. I can’t even begin to describe the hallow emptiness I feel inside.” Harry says, voice eerily even and measured, expression remaining completely apathetic and resigned. “So…to answer your question…no, I don’t feel anything.”

Louis chews anxiously on the inside of his cheek, watching Harry closely. What exactly happened to him? How is Harry so cold and distant, what drained the bright spirit and cheerful nature away from the boy he once knew?

“Tell me.” Louis finds himself uttering out loud, before he truly knows what he is asking.

“Tell you what?” Harry frowns.

“Tell me what happened. I want to know what they did to you.” Louis says, voice sounding more determined this time around. “I need to know.”

Harry shakes his head, a sadness falling over his shielded eyes, shrouding his features as though he wants to protectively shelter Louis from all the wrong he has experienced. “No.”

“Why not?”

“It will only serve to upset you…and I…” Harry bows his head down towards his lap. “I don’t like seeing you upset or hurting.”

“Please Haz.” Louis tentatively reaches to take Harry’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb softly along Harry’s skin. “I just…I really need to know…I have to know.”

Harry breathes deeply several times, expression conflicted, hand still laced with Louis’. He chews on his lower lip anxiously, shoulders slouched and downcast.

“After I was stabbed, I kinda blacked out…” Harry starts, continuing to stare down at his lap, not meeting Louis’ eyes. The concentrated wrinkle of his brow deepening into a hard groove over his forehead.  “Apparently Simon had been stealing money and shit from the wrong people, people who don’t take being fucked over lightly. Essentially, they faked my death so that they could get me out of prison. Not even really faked, I’m pretty sure I was dead for a few minutes after they stabbed me multiple times. I went in and out of consciousness and I just have little flashes of being in a dirty van and blood being everywhere and I remember hearing screaming, but I could never tell if it was my screaming or someone else’s. Probably mine.”

Harry sighs lowly before continuing. “I don’t know how many days I was out, but I woke up in a shitty cold stone walled cell with dirt floors and stale water leaking from a moldy roof. My whole body felt as if it was on fire, like I was burning from the inside out and my head wouldn’t stop spinning and everything seemed to be upside down or revolving. I remember looking down and discovering that I had a series of metal staples holding the tattered skin of my stomach together and if I moved too much or even breathed too heavily, it would rupture and start bleeding out again.”

Louis squeezes Harry’s hand tightly, trying to bite back his tears. He can picture a scared and confused, eighteen-year-old Harry, dreadfully weakened and disoriented, not knowing where he is or why. The mental image alone ruthlessly aches and tears at Louis’ fragile heart. Louis looks down and realizes he is digging crescent shaped outlines in Harry’s palm from holding on so tightly.

“I can stop.” Harry whispers softly, lifting his gaze to meet Louis’. “You don’t have to punish yourself Louis, it’s not your fault.”

“Keep going.” Louis sniffles weakly, swiping at his eyes, which is essentially futile as the tears continue to flow down his cheeks mercilessly.

Harry stares at Louis for a moment, expression deeply saddened as he grips Louis’ fingers tightly. “So…um…for some reason, well actually not just some reason…because I was proven guilty and convicted for it, they thought I actually had the money. That I had somehow stolen their money that was meant to be invested into Blackstone and transferred it to an offshore account somewhere.” Harry blows out a slow gust of air from his nostrils. “But I was innocent, and completely unaware…I hardly knew what they were talking about half the time. I didn't know about any money or who embezzled shit. But of course, they wouldn't believe me, and when it comes to money, at such a grand and highly valued scale, they would stop at nothing. So they tried to torture answers out of me. Answers I truly didn’t have.” 

Harry stops, gazing at Louis again. “I’ll just…skip over that and-”

“No don't.” Louis shakes his head, interrupting Harry. “I have to hear it.” 

“Why?” Harry whispers morosely, tilting his head miserably.

“Harry, I have to…” Louis answers breathlessly, water profusely flowing across his broken face. He has to know; he needs to know the severity of Harry’s undeserved misfortune. Louis needs to feel it.

Harry breaks his gaze with Louis, once again bowing his head downward towards their intertwined hands. “Um…basically any type of torture you can possibly think of I’ve probably experienced and have the scars to match. They tried everything, psychological to physical, as if solitary confinement and deprivation was not enough in itself. From waterboarding to cutting to suffocating to choking to burning to crushing to branding; or even just unyielding pressure point concentration. Anything really.”

“Though, I think the absolute worst was when they would drive long needles up the length of my fingers. The most sensitive nerve endings in the body are in the fingertips, so overstimulation of those nerve endings leads to a series of hot flashes and puts negative strain on the heart. And the body is physiologically designed to shut down and slow the heart and brain activity under extreme amounts of duress or trauma in order to numb the pain.” Harry explains dissonantly. “So to stop that process, they would strap a heart monitor and a defibrillator to my chest so when my heart rate eventually began to stop, it would volt me back and restart my heart and then they would do it over and over again until I actually felt like I was… _dead_.”

Louis uses his free hand to cover his wet face, feeling lightheaded and dizzy. He feels as though he is two seconds away from vomiting, his whole body is uneasy and biliously sickened.

“And it went on and on like that. I don’t know if they thought I mattered, like maybe I had some kind of leverage with Blackstone, or whether it was just principle, but even after they knew I didn’t have the money, that there was no way I’d be lying after all of that…they never killed me.” Harry sighs gloomily. “I remember wanting so desperately to die, but they kept me alive, barely, but alive.”

“Years went by and they tortured me less. Only every so often. But they brought in new captives, people who owed them, I suppose. I don’t know if they were all linked to Simon or Blackstone but they tortured them just the same. Killed a lot of them. It was horrifying at first, but slowly I don’t know…I grew numb to it, I just couldn’t feel anything. Not inside, not outside, nothing.”

“One of the men they brought in, Liam, he was an agent.” Harry smiles softly, reminiscent. “He was so bold and fearless and he talked incessantly…about everything. But all through his stories and tales, he had a plan. He was determined to get out of there. He made the last year I was in that hellhole bearable.”

“What happened to him?” Louis questions timidly, almost not wanting to know.

“He died when we were escaping.” Harry answers sadly, emerald eyes turning stormy. “He sacrificed his life for me. And I never really understood why or how he could be so brave and selfless, but I’ll never forget all that he did for me, all that I learned from him. I only knew Liam a year, but in that year I grew to love him as a true friend. I’ll never forget him as long as I live.”

Louis didn’t even know the man, but he is sad that he was caught up in all this. Yet at the same time, Louis is somehow glad that he was because at least it gave Harry some kind of companionship. And more importantly, helped Harry escape that nightmare of a place.

“So...um…after I escaped I vowed to take down all the people who played a role in this, everyone who had a part in ruining my life. I joined The Agency that Liam was apart of and I transformed myself into someone else, someone better. Someone who could fit back into this world and simultaneously destroy it.” Harry pauses a moment, furrowing his brow in consideration and tilting his head. “And you know what? I don’t really know…or I can’t really tell if I truly know who I am anymore…but it’s easier to be someone else than to try and figure it out.”

Louis sits for a few moments in silence, muted saltwater tracking his face. He feels heartbroken and defeated but he doesn’t know what he can do about it besides sit in disbelief. Is it possible to go into shock more than one time per day? Louis thinks he has to have beaten a record of some sort. What has his life become? More importantly, what has Harry’s life become? It never should have been like this, life never should have been this wicked, this horrific, this unfair.

“It's...it's my fault...” Louis whispers quietly, masked by the deep desolation lodged in his throat. He shakes his head several times before folding in on himself, trembling arms holding his head miserably in his lap.

“No my love, no, it’s not.” Harry stands from his bar stool and positions himself in between Louis’ legs. Louis remains seated, hunched over as sobs wave over his crippled frame.

“It is though...” Louis shakes his head adamantly again, crying heavily. “If I…if I never loved you then...you would...you would be fine…you would never...” Louis’ voice fades away, overtaken by the severity of his emotions, shoulders shuttering.

Harry places his hands softly on Louis’ shoulders, rubbing his upper arms reassuringly, trying to get him to sit up straight and calm his intermittent breathing. “Louis, how can you say that?”

“Because it’s all I can think of Harry!” Louis yells abruptly. He sits up on his stool, eyes enflamed and watery. “It’s all I see when I look at the anguish behind your eyes and the ugly marks that cover your entire body! I just keep thinking that I could have saved you so much pain if I never…if we never…we shouldn’t have ever been together! You should have never been mixed up in the curses of the rich, it should have never tainted you.”

Harry moves his hands to cradle Louis’ face, tenderly tilting his head up to face him. “I may not know a lot of things, and I may not know who I am at this point but I do know that I will never regret loving you. I will die before I even begin to regret what we had. Loving you kept me alive. I don’t care if we were wrong, I don’t care if we were never meant to be together, I don’t care if destiny and fate and whatever the fuck else were against us, I loved you with everything I had and…I…” Harry’s expression deeply softens as gazes upon Louis with sincere expressive eyes. “I still do.”

“Harry…” Louis breathes, reaching to run his fingers across across Harry’s cheek, tracing his fingers along the grooves and curves of his features.

God, so much has changed about him, so much is different and unfamiliar but still, so much is the same. Louis can see the young boy he fell in love with, behind the dark shadows of his eyes, shrouded by a lifetime of heartache, he can see glimpses of _his_ Harry. That small flicker of his beautiful long lost love is there and it's enough. It's more than enough. 

Louis gently pulls Harry's face down to his, fervently pressing his lips to Harry’s. The kiss deepens, both of them giving all they have to each other as they speak through the gliding of their tongues and the joining of their lips.

“ _I missed you_.” Louis whispers softly, like a hushed prayer against Harry’s mouth, hands cupped around his face.

“Louis…I…” Harry starts breathlessly, seeming overwhelmed.

“I know…” Louis crashes their lips together again before Harry can say any more, cradling his face for dear life, as if he may slip from between his fingers at any moment.

Harry presses further in between Louis’ legs, drawing him close with his fingers moving through the back of Louis’ hair. Their heads tilt and turn at pleasurable angles, small gasps escaping their lips. Louis latches on to Harry, wrapping his legs tightly around Harry’s waist and locking his ankles together behind his back. Louis holds Harry’s face between his hands, colliding his mouth against Harry’s repeatedly, desperately, as Harry lifts Louis up in his strong arms and carries them blindly out of the expansive kitchen.

As they shuffle unseeingly through the house towards the master bedroom, Louis strips Harry of his hoodie, discarding it along with his own t-shirt. Louis attaches his lips to the grove of Harry’s neck, kissing a trail of tender kisses along his skin, Harry letting out breathy moans with each caress.

Harry deposits Louis gently on the wide, king size bed, lips still attached, Louis pulling Harry down with him. Harry pauses above Louis, breaking away from his mouth momentarily and looking down at him. “Are you…are you sure that…we should-”

“Yes.” Louis answers without hesitation, utterly breathless, leaning up to seal their lips together again. He runs his needy hands along Harry’s bare body, getting lost in the feeling of being close to him again, lost in the inebriating sensation. He has wanted this for so long, he has yearned for it, dreamt of it, longed to feel the weight and presence of Harry’s body against his.

Nothing else matters except the gratifying feeling of Harry pressed flush against him. Nothing matters except the impassioned glide of their bodies moving together, worshiping each other, completely enamored. Wanting to touch everywhere at once as if there isn't enough time, as if too much time has already been lost. But yet, even still, wanting to take their time, to slow their yearning venerations and meticulously relearn all the wondrous curves and beauteous bows of their bodies. To explore each and every freckle and pore, every entrancingly accented feature, every coveted erogenous zone and cleave to every square inch of intoxicatingly rousing flesh.

Although over time, their bodies have grown so different, altered by age and circumstance, they still work so well together, faultlessly slotted as one, perfectly melding in sweet passionate motions, rocking salaciously in timed, matched cadence.

Louis is so, so very gentle with Harry, as if he were made of glass, treating his body with all the reverence it deserves. And Harry can only be but as tender with Louis, just as cherishing; physically devoting their entire being to one another. All the longing and desperation, all the need and the earnest want kept pent up inside for over a decade, pours out of them solicitously, both in quick impassioned bursts and long drawn out devotions, all throughout the night. 

They collapse eventually in each other's arms; the last thing Louis recalls is resting his head against Harry’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, in total awe of it. The most beautiful sound Louis has ever heard, the sound of Harry _alive_ , the thrum of his body sustaining him. Louis listens to Harry’s heartbeat contently, committing its stable patterns to memory before allowing himself to drift asleep, comforted by the thumps of his favorite beating lullaby. 

 

* * *

 

When Louis wakes up, he is alarmed by the unfamiliarity of the room, taken aback by his surroundings until he remembers where he is. He finds the opposite side of the bed empty, but still warm from Harry’s recent presence. Louis sinks back against the soft silk of the sheets and remembers, in heated flashes, the racy events of the night previous. The bedroom itself serves as but an unwavering aphrodisiac, eliciting vehement memories.

Louis touches a finger to his flush lips; he tastes hints of Harry on his tongue, traces of him litter the surface of his body. Harry’s tantalizing scent surrounds Louis, encompassing him sensuously, overtaking the focus of his mind. 

Louis’ eyelashes flutter closed as he remembers how it felt to be touched by Harry once again, to be loved by him. How it felt to be able to touch him in return, to please him and finally make him feel good and truly cared for.

Louis remembers how it felt to hear his own name leaked reverently from Harry’s slack jaw and how it felt to moan Harry’s name in fervid desire and know that he's right there to hear it, to welcome it, to embrace it. 

His skin stings all over, aroused goose bumps prickling over ever single spot Harry's fingertips pressed against, along every dip and twist of his body that Harry’s nose trailed as he meticulously breathed Louis in. He bursts in pleasant warm flares at the redolent ghost brush of pink, plush, plump lips overwhelming his senses. Louis actually lets out a sensuous moan in reminiscent euphoria, uninhibited ecstasy erupting deep within.

It was unreal. Almost but a fantasy, a phantasmagoric exploit.

Louis opens his eyes slowly and finds Harry staring at him unwaveringly from the frame of the doorway. As Louis meets his eyes, he realizes something is different about him, something has changed.

He shaved.

Harry shaved the growing hair of his face and he looks so tragically young. Starkly resembling his adolescent self. Of course, his current features are now sharply angled and chiseled, no longer soft and rounded with adorable baby fat like before, but still, he looks so beautifully young, open and vulnerable, almost content or even... _happy._  

Harry crosses the expanse of the room silently, sliding back into the side of the bed he left momentarily vacant. He doesn’t utter a single word, just looking to Louis reverentially with adoring eyes, appearing to try and commit to final memory all that he sees before him, try to memorize all that is Louis.

“Are you just going to stare at me?” Louis asks softly into the stillness, reaching over to stroke his clean shaven face.

Harry gazes at him, a peculiar look flashing across his features as if he can't believe Louis asked him such a silly question. As if he can't believe Louis is real. A sentiment which Louis can empathize with, he doesn't know if he will ever get used to the idea of Harry being real and alive, of him being physically within his reach, not just a dream or a figment of his sad misguided imagination. 

“My love, I could stare at you all day and all night and it would not be nearly close to enough.”  Harry replies quietly, after an almost embarrassing amount of time has passed. 

Louis says nothing, instead pulling Harry over to him, holding him against his own chest, hugging Harry as close as tangibly possible. He cards his fingers through the length of Harry’s ringlets slowly, pressing his lips to the crown of his head every so often. They dwell in the silence, content in each other's presence. So much needs to be said, so much needs to be talked about, but right now all they can do is hold each other. 

“Do you still write?” Harry questions softly against Louis’ bare skin, breaking the stillness. 

“Hmm?” Louis hums in question, caught off guard by the random inquiry as he stokes Harry’s hair. 

“Do you still write?” Harry wonders again just as soft as the first time. “I've missed your writing.”

“No.” Louis answers simply, twisting his finger in one of Harry’s curls. “No, I don't write much anymore.” 

“Why not?” Harry flattens a hand against Louis’ naked stomach, seeming to be amazed by how big his hands are in comparison to Louis’ slight frame.

“I don't know...it just...it wasn't the same anymore. It didn't feel right.” 

Louis knows why. He knows why writing was never the same for him. It could never be the same once Harry was gone. It all felt pointless and idiotic. He didn’t know what he was writing about anymore, or why it was even slightly relevant. It all had no meaning. 

When Harry died, a part of him died with it. At first, it felt like all of him died, but over time he learned how to pick up the pieces and attempt to tape them back together, but the part of him that loved words, that loved the lyrical flow and melodious dance of a sentence, the part of him that would string line after line and stanza after stanza, coupling ideas with beautiful notions and enraptured stories, that part of him died. Never to be heard from again.

Harry tilts his head up, still rested against Louis’ chest. “Why?” 

“I had no muse. I had no inspiration to guide my jumbled thoughts...I had no _you_.” Louis admits, a deep despondency embellished in his words. “Somehow the thing I was so good at, the thing I enjoyed with all I had, that once gave me so much peace, had been tied to you. And I couldn’t deal with the pain of knowing that I could write something so beautiful and inspired and you would never read it. It felt wrong. It felt wrong to go on living without you.”

“I did try.” Louis adds, fingers still tangled in Harry’s curls. “I heard you whisper in my ear, _‘live as though I’m with you always’_ like a broken tape, replaying over and over in my head. But how could I live knowing that you weren’t always with me? That you would never be ever again.”

Harry nuzzles his head against Louis' bare chest, squeezing him tightly in his arms. He inhales several times, taking Louis in, holding him as close to his soft cheeks as he possibly can.

Louis clutches Harry snugly in return, cradling his head against his torso. Although Louis thought he had long run out of tears to shed, he feels like crying again. He feels like he will never stop crying. Life isn’t fair.

“Leave with me.” Harry whispers against Louis’ chest, quietly. So quiet, in fact, Louis almost misses it.

“What?”

 “This whole thing, this never-ending charade, this horrid fucking mess…it goes beyond you, beyond me, even.” Harry utters softly. “We were just unfortunately caught in the crossfire. Poor undeserving victims to cruelty. There are evil people at fault here, foul people who deserve to die, who deserve to suffer…and I've been working so hard to avenge myself, to avenge those like me who have been cruelly wronged or had their lives unfairly taken due to the corruptness of this company, due to the wickedness of money hungry people…but I...but I don't...” Harry pauses for a moment, letting out a silent breath. “I don't need to finish this...”

“Harry?” Louis peers down at Harry against him, questioning the true meaning of his words.

“Leave with me, Louis.” Harry urges again, with more conviction this time, sitting up to meet Louis’ eyes openly. “Let's just leave, you and me. We can go far, far away and never look back. We can leave this city and leave this all in the past. We can get to know each other again. We can start over.” 

Louis opens his mouth to speak but no words form, confounded. “But…”

“Lou, I will leave all this behind.” Harry pledges honestly, linking both his hands with Louis’. “Every single thing, just for you…I will leave everything behind for you. My vendetta against Blackstone, my thirst for revenge, my need for closure, for relief, for vengeance, it all doesn't matter if I don't get you in the end.” 

“Harry, I don't...I don't know…”

“Louis, I can take care of you. I somehow have more money than I know what to do with. We can go anywhere, be anyone, do anything.” Harry tenderly kisses the pulse points of Louis’ dainty wrists. “We can disappear. We can finally be together.” 

Louis brings one of their joined fingers to Harry’s face, flattening his hand against his cheek, looking into Harry’s pleading eyes.  “Harry...but I...but I'm...”

“What my love, what is it? What's wrong?”

“I just...I can't just leave.” 

“Why not, baby?” Harry asks softly, tilting his head with wide earnest eyes.

Louis opens and closes his mouth, not wanting to answer truthfully, not wanting to burst their little bubble of peace. “Because...I have...I mean I....I just…I…I can't…I can’t leave…Zayn.” 

“ _Zayn_ …”

Harry inhales sharply, dropping Louis’ hands and sitting up abruptly as if he had just been burned, looking upon Louis with eyes no longer filled with earnest but laden with betrayal.

“Harry, please don't look at me like that. Please, love. This is so hard for me.” Louis admits the words he spoke sound selfish and naïve, but he feels so torn, so confused. Split between the world he knows and the world he once knew, stuck at the center of two competing realms.

“Oh, this is hard for you? Well, shit…excuse me.” Harry exhales mockingly, sliding off the bed and standing to his feet. “What about me, Louis? How hard do you think this is for me? Or do you think it must be _so_ easy for me? That I’ve been fucking living it up this entire time, that my life has been nothing but rainbows and smiles and happy thoughts and joyful times!”

“Of course not Harry! I could never think that! I know it's been so much more than hard for you, I do, I know, love. The hardship you went through is written all over your face, it’s etched permanently along your body.” Louis answers sadly, expression lost as he gazes up at Harry from the bed. “But…I just…”

“I practically rose from the dead with hateful revenge pinned to my heart and vengeance carved into my soul and I’m telling you that I will forsake all of it in a fucking instant for you and-”

“You're asking me to just abandon my life!” Louis cuts in impolitely. “Abandon everything I've known for the past twelve years! Abandon my husband, uproot myself, drop everything and run away with you!”

“Yes Louis! I am! I am asking you to do that! I came back for you! Because I love you! I've always loved you and I need you! You're the only reason I'm still alive! That there is still any semblance of life in my tired body. Through everything that's happened, you were the only thing that pulled me through, that made me open my heavy eyes when I never wanted to see again, or take in a breath when I wanted my last, or stand to my feet when I wanted to collapse and die. It was _you_!” Harry shouts, water drizzling down his cheeks, his voice drops down to a whisper as he gazes at Louis openly, shaking his head. “Lou, it was you. Always you.”

“Haz...I...” Louis responds breathlessly, at a loss of what to say or do next. Somehow it feels like he has heard this before, somehow this feels familiar. Not to the exact same extent of course, but the sentiment is of the same effect. Maybe because not so long ago, another man was pouring out a similar devotion, another man being his husband. 

“Do you still love me, Louis?” Harry asks in a weak quiet voice, hanging his head.

“Yes…” Louis nods his head slowly, gazing at Harry’s bowed head. “Yes, with all my life. I could never stop. Never.” 

“Then if you love me...you'll come with me...and you'll...” Harrys voice cuts out, fading away as he frowns and shakes his head stepping back again. “Unless...unless...you...”

“Unless what?” Louis prompts, sitting up even more.

Harry blinks several times, puzzle pieces seeming to click together in his mind silently. He turns abruptly and leaves without another word, retreating into the large walk-in closet.

“Harry!” Louis shouts, beyond confused as he watches Harry emerge from the closet, arms half slung in a pressed button up shirt. Harry flits silently across the room, picking up various garments of clothing. “Harry…unless I what?”

Harry stuffs his legs in the black trousers that were draped over a lounge chair in the corner, forsaking buckling the belt still looped around the waistband.

Louis would sell his soul to know what is going on in Harry’s head, to know what he is thinking, to know what he is talking about. Louis slips from the bed, sliding on a pair of pants. “Harry?”

“I have to go.” Harry mumbles quietly, hurriedly buckling his belt around his hips, before darting across the room again.

“Wait, Harry!” Louis pleads following Harry’s unpredictable movements across the room. “I do love you, I do! I swear it! I love you, Harry! I love you!”

Harry continues to disregard Louis completely, buttoning up the many buttons of his finely tailored shirt without so much as a look in Louis’ direction.

“Harry! Talk to me please!” Louis senses a new emotional wave coming over his body as he is continually ignored by Harry, who seems to be in a steady trance, determination and resolve ironclad.

Harry slides his arms into a suit jacket, matching his trousers, stuffing his feet roughly into shined shoes and briskly heading out the bedroom door.

Louis surges forward to wrap his arms around Harry’s upper arm, attempting to stop him from storming off any further. “Stop! Where are you going?”

“Let go of me, Louis.” Harry answers coldly, almost mechanically. He really is in some sort of unnerving trance, focused and driven, zoned in on his next plan of action.

“No!” Louis steps in front of Harry, pressing both his hands against the center of his chest and pushing firmly against the force of Harry’s strength moving against him.

Harry pauses for a moment, looking down and meeting Louis’ eyes and Louis almost thinks that Harry sees him, truly sees him. Maybe even sees him enough to stop, to listen to reason. But, Harry tears his gaze away from Louis harshly, expression set into a hard line as he continues towards the front door again.

“I have to end this.”

True understanding slams Louis in the gut as he realizes what exactly Harry means, realizes where Harry is going. Louis shakes his head violently, suddenly out of breath as if he has actually just been sucker-punched in the stomach. His eyes are so watery, and he can’t see shit and he doesn’t even know when he started crying but he can’t stop now.

“No! No! Fuck!” Louis screams in pain, tears falling rapidly as he holds on to Harry for dear life, trying desperately to stop him. But Harry’s frame is stronger and so much larger than Louis’ and he presses on towards the front door, dragging Louis along like a paper ragdoll. “You can’t! You can’t kill Zayn! Harry please!”

“Fucking let go of me, Louis.” Harry spits darkly, voice eerie and deathly focused.

Louis releases Harry only to run to the wide front door, positioning his body over the closed exit, spreading his bare trembling arms out over the frame. He can’t let Harry do this, he can’t let him leave. No matter how much Zayn hurt Louis, no matter how angry he is, no matter how royally fucked up this whole situation is, Louis doesn’t want to see his husband murdered.

“Don’t do this! Don’t hurt him!” Louis cries as Harry gets closer and closer to him, a mask over his face, his features scarily impassive and cold. “God, fuck, Harry! Listen to me, please!”

Harry stops in front of Louis, eyes narrowed, completely expressionless. “Move.”

Louis can’t even speak, traumatized by the indescribable darkness in Harry’s eyes, the venom in his tone, the contentedness and gentleness and even happiness he possessed only moments ago, long vanished. All Louis can do is shake his head repeatedly as his chest rises and falls heavily in panic, as his eyes continue to rain down pained salty tears.

“Fucking move out of the way or I will fucking do it for you.” Harry dares menacingly, body rigid and withdrawn. “You can’t stop me Louis, you can’t.”

Louis continues to shake his head, refusing to move away from the doorframe, keeping his legs and arms outspread. “You don’t have to do this Harry, you don’t! Just let it go! Please let it go!”

“Move!” Harry shouts wrathfully, voice booming deeply, showing more emotion than he has in the past few minutes. He presses further, right up against a quivering Louis.

“Let it go for me, baby! Let it go for me!” Louis sobs miserably, pounding his clenched fists against Harry’s sturdy unwilling chest. “Please let it go...”

“I can’t anymore, Louis.” Harry pushes past Louis, moving his feeble hardly-clothed figure out of the way easily, as Louis seems to give up. “I can’t.”

“Please…” Louis whispers weakly as his heavy body caves in on him. He sinks slowly to his knees, watching helplessly as Harry determinedly exits the wide mahogany door without another word.

“For me…”

 

* * *

_  
“Hatred is blind; rage carries you away; and he who pours out vengeance runs the risk of tasting a bitter draught.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_


	6. Act VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey hey :)
> 
> although its not relevant right now i suppose, I'm adjusting this fic from seven acts to eight. I thought i could fit it all in seven but alas i can not, so yep its eight now yay! :)
> 
> as for this act, its just straight up drama the whole way. i hope you all enjoy it, thanks again for all your support and opinions! :))

** Act VI **

 

_“Fool that I am, that I did not tear out my heart the day I resolved to revenge myself.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_

* * *

 

 

Harry left Louis in his own house, practically in his own bed and he couldn't give less of a damn about it right now. He had to get out, to get away from Louis before he said or did something that he will ultimately come to regret. Before the overriding rage that is bubbling up rapidly under Harry’s agitated skin causes him to suddenly burst and lash out uncontrollably. His muscles are twitching with incessant urgency, jerking relentlessly in dire need for release, for reprieve.

He was going to try, really, he was. Harry was honestly going to try and move beyond all this. To let the past remain in the past and move forward with his life. Maybe even, move forward with _Louis_.

But now, even the temerity of that magnanimous notion is essentially shot to fucking shit. A preposterous fantasy, it seems.

Soaring into their safe-house like a vengeful tornado, Harry finds Niall leaning over a set of blueprints, taking down a few calculated notes.

“Hello Sunshine.” Niall smiles cheerfully in welcome, looking up as Harry blows past him rudely.

Harry hardly waves to Niall in greeting, heading straight to the armory closet locked away in the back of the small house.

“Harry?” Niall questions in concern, spinning around to follow Harry’s odd movements. “Mate?”

Harry ignores Niall’s calls as he unlocks the metal cabinet and pulls out a sleek G22 along with a canister of fresh bullets. He releases the magazine, setting the base of the gun down as he begins loading up the cartridge with bullets.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Niall inquiries, watching worriedly as Harry replenishes the weapon with a swiftness. “What happened?” 

“It doesn't matter, Ni.” Harry grumbles in gruff tones, fiddling with the gun in his hands hastily, loading shiny gold bullets, one after the other.

“It _does_ matter.” Niall disagrees, stepping closer. “I haven’t heard from you since yesterday and then you come storming in here unannounced, messing with guns and shit. You're obviously upset, Sunshine. Where are you going?”

“You know where I'm going.” Harry answers sternly, filling the chamber up to the maximum with fifteen bullets.

“Harry…that's not according to plan.” Niall shakes his head, inching closer to Harry as if scared of what he might do next. “I can't let you do this now.”

Harry pumps the magazine back into the gun easily, clicking it in place before turning to face Niall with cold, dead eyes. “Get out of my way, Niall.”

Niall holds his hands up gradually, refusing to move out of Harry’s path, eyeing him carefully. “Mate, I told you, once we take Simon down you can do whatever you want with Zayn. I made you a promise and I'm a man of my word.” 

“Out of my motherfucking way, Niall!” Harry shouts harshly, shoulders brooding in front of Niall who stands protectively guarding the door.

“Harry come on, you're not thinking straight.” Niall tries, talking slowly and evenly as if talking to a spooked dangerous animal. “Just take a few calming breaths. Let’s talk about this, ok? Come on Sunshine, just breathe with me…”  

“I will never take another calm breath until the last goddamn breath has been taken from _his_ fucking body.” Harry informs callously, eyes insensitive. His chest rises and falls heavily, the cumbersome anger inside of him flashing white hot over his overwrought body.

Harry may be numb to a lot of things, and he may not have a proper grasp on reality but he knows without a shadow of a doubt that the profound hatred he holds in his heart for Zayn is out of his control. The unfathomable abhorrence courses through Harry’s body thicker and more viscous than his own blood.

“You can't do this Harry.” Niall states factually, hands still raised. “Too much is at stake, too much is at play, it’s all hinged on each other. We have to stick to the plan.”

“Move Horan. Or I swear I will shoot you in the leg.” Harry threatens, pulling the slide of the gun back and aiming it at Niall’s lower limbs. “I don’t give a single fuck about plans, I don’t give a damn about whatever is at play! He. Has. To. Fucking. GO!”

“Harry please…calm down.” Niall implores, talking softly in appeasing tones.

“No! No, I will not fucking calm down!” Harry screams at the very top of his lungs, waving the weapon along with his exaggerated movements. “This has gone on long enough and it fucking ends today!”

“I don’t know what just happened, but I can see that you’re very hostile and I really think you should take a moment and think about this.” Niall mollifies, slowing his speech even more. “You suffered a lot of fucking awful shit, and I get that, really I do, and I’m sorry that you went through that, but…just try, Harry. Try to calm down buddy, try to let go…just a little bit. Just try to let it go.”

“Niall, I don’t want to hurt you, seriously I don’t. But I will if I have to. If you don’t move your ass out of my way in the next ten seconds, I will pull this trigger.” Harry says in a completely even tone, barrel still pointed firmly at Niall. “I’m not going to ask you again.”

Niall holds Harry’s blistering gaze for several moments as Harry determinedly angles the gun at him, unwavering. “Just…be careful, ok?” He sighs deeply, stepping aside as he slowly surrenders.

“I’m never anything but.”

 

* * *

 

Harry pulls up to the large gate at the front of Zayn’s vast estate, expecting to simply drive through the gateway as he always does. However, the uniformed man at the gate signals for Harry to roll down his car window.

Harry groans heavily, throwing his head back against the leather headrest in irate exasperation. Unfortunately, getting onto Zayn’s property effectively will take just a bit more effort.

“Oh, hello Mr. De la Pailleterie.”  The gate keeper greets chirpily, waving politely in bright spirits.

“Hello.” Harry answers tersely through his rolled down driver’s side window, hands gripping the wheel tightly, knuckles white and painfully strained.

“Having a good day so far?”

“Oh, the _best._ ” Harry answers flatly with a strict tight lipped leer, tone ever so sardonic. Why is he sitting here engaging in pointless chitchat? He is so beyond ready to just forcefully barrel through the metal gate, at the expense of his pristine silver Murciélago. It’s just a car anyway and Harry gives absolutely no fucks anymore.

The guard leans over, expression slightly perplexed as he looks at Harry in consideration. “I wasn’t informed that Mr. Malik was having any guests today.”

“Yes.” Harry rolls his eyes, cheeks tense and annoyed. “We have a meeting. So if you could just…” Harry exasperatedly gestures forward to the still closed gate in front of his stagnant car.

“I’ll have to run the by-”

“Are you _serious_!?” Harry interrupts suddenly, deciding in that very moment that he will need to be more assertive to successfully get past this goddamn gate. “I’ve been here a million and one times in the past few weeks, what is the issue?! Are you really going to call him about such a trivial thing? I just told you that he is expecting me!”

The guard looks shocked, completely taken aback by Harry’s hasty outburst. “Well uh…I just thought I should double check and-”

“This is fucking outrageous! I am so insulted!” Harry declares dramatically, throwing his hands up in his sports car. “How on earth can Zayn employ such simple minded people? How does anything get done around here? How has his bloody estate not burned to the fucking ground at the hands of idiots?” Harry rants incessantly, putting on a good little show, which isn’t even that hard to fake because he truly is internally livid. “I should report you as being completely incompetent!” 

“Oh, no please sir that's not necessary. I-” 

“I don’t have time for this fuckery! I don’t have to be fucking blatantly disrespected! I’m a very busy and important man!” Harry yells, voice growing more and more in volume. He really could keep this up all day if he had to, whatever it takes to get behind that gate. “Have fun explaining to your employer how you lost his biggest client! I hear the employment line is short on Thursday mornings. Best of luck finding a new job.”  

The gate keeper stands bumbling in shock, opening his mouth to answer but Harry beats him to it before he can even begin to form words.

“You know what? Better yet, I'll just call Zayn myself and we can discuss why I'm late seeing as though I'm being held hostage at _his_ fucking front gate by a simpleton that _he_ fucking hired, a moron that is somehow still on _his_ fucking payroll!” Harry emphasizes blatantly. He must admit it’s kind of empowering to be impolite, especially after physically biting his tongue, week after week.

“No…um…please Mr. De la Pailleterie, I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” The guard stumbles, pressing the opening button for the gate. “Go on in. I’m so sorry, sir. My sincerest apologies for the delay.”

Harry gives the guard one final deathly gaze as he rolls up the window and proceeds through the gate.

Manipulation truly is an art form. Harry has learned that if he acts rudely entitled enough, if he can make someone question themselves just enough to open that nagging window of doubt, he can essentially do anything he wants, get anything he wants. It’s all an act of tactful and calculated responses, a dominant power struggle that he has so opportunely learned how to win.  

Harry takes the grand stairs two at a time, in long purposeful strides, feeling the weight of his gun pressed against his back. He reaches the doorway and raps his knuckle loudly against its surface.

“Hello sir.” A pristinely dressed maid greets as the wide entry door opens. “You’re here to see Mr. Malik, I presume? He is in the far left wing, in his study. I can lead you there if you like.”

“Oh, no need.” Harry replies quickly, with a forced smile. “I remember where it is.”

“No, sir, please. I insist.” She beams willingly.

Harry sighs to himself, internally screaming out into the void. All these damn servants and staff members need to fucking _go_ , they are so beyond intrusive. It’s a fucking nuisance. Who needs this many people around at all times? How can anyone get any peace? Come to think of it, Harry always thought it was unnecessary when he lived with Zayn as a teenager and the whole concept has just grown exceedingly more annoying.

Harry follows silently behind the maid, walking through hallway after vast hallway until final reaching a solid polished oak door.

“Here we are, sir.” She gestures towards the closed office door, bowing her head marginally towards Harry.

“Thank you.” Harry responds with another fake smile as she turns to leave. Harry knocks on the door respectfully, even though he feels no need to be courteous anymore, waiting until he hears the soft, unaware call of Zayn’s voice welcoming him inside.

Harry opens the door with the twist of the golden knob and steps inside the room slowly. As Harry closes the door behind him, Zayn doesn’t lift his head at all from whatever he is scribbling down on his desk, obviously unbothered and accustomed to intruders in his office.

“Hello _brother_.”

Zayn snaps his neck up from his desk in surprise at the odd greeting. He was most likely expecting one of his staff or maybe even Louis to be joining him. Zayn gasps, instantly dropping his silver fountain pen, eyes wide as he takes in Harry’s clean shaven, glasses-less face and stern unwavering glare.

“Shit…it really is you…” Zayn breathes heavily, eyeing Harry in startled astonishment. “Uh…when Louis told me that…um…you were alive, I…I started to put the pieces together in my head…that Alex…and…fuck…” Zayn trails off, rambling to himself in shock. Looking a touch nauseous. “And you shaved…and you’re… _Harry_ …”

“Surprise.” Harry smiles mockingly sweet, drawing the sleek black gun from behind his back, under the hem of his suit jacket. “Did you miss me, Z?”

Zayn sits utterly stunned for several moments, jaw hanging open as if he truly can’t believe this is actually happening. “Harry…I...wait, I’m so-”

“Shut the fuck up, Zayn! Just shut up!” Harry yells abruptly, aiming the gun at Zayn from across the large office space. “Now, send all your fucking staff home.”

“What?” Zayn asks, confused.

“Send them away, NOW!” Harry shouts forcefully, stepping closer to Zayn’s massive desk, arm still extended, gun in hand.

Zayn nods shakily and carefully leans across his desk to the phone in the corner. He dials a single number, holding the headset to his ear. “Tell the staff they have the rest of the day off.” Zayn says curtly. “Yes, all of them. Yes, I’m fucking sure! Just do it right now!”

Zayn hangs up the phone, looking to Harry who still has the barrel of his gun aimed right at his head from a few paces away. “H, can we please just talk about this?”

Harry frowns, shrugging as he steps a bit further into the room. “Oh, but what is there to talk about?”

“Harry…please just-”

“No, no! Fuck you and fuck your excuses! I don’t want to hear it, Zayn!” Harry screams intensely, eyes raging in fiery flames. “I don’t give a shit anymore about whatever the fuck you have to say! And I sure as hell don’t give a shit about you!”

“Just let me explain!” Zayn pleads, standing to his feet and holding his hands up weakly.

“Explain?! Explain what?! Explain how you fucked me over! Explain how you fed me to the fucking wolves! Explain how you stabbed me in the back! Explain how even that wasn’t enough so you up and stole the love of my life!” Harry yells heatedly. “Yeah Zayn! Fuck! Let’s have a little fucking chat about it!”

Zayn just shakes his head repeatedly without forming words, hands still raised in surrender.

“You know, in the beginning, at the very start of all this, I couldn't wrap my mind around it all.” Harry looks up for a moment, expression contemplative. “I spent so many days staring at a blank stone wall, just…staring. Repeating it all in my head over and over and over again and I just couldn’t connect the dots. I just couldn’t understand how my best friend, up and betrayed me all of a sudden. With such a quickness and harshness. With no real apparent meaning or motive. Because really, what did I have? What was it that I had that you didn’t? I was dirt broke, still earning an education. I had no skills to offer, truly. I had no family, nothing to my name. But what did I have?” Harry returns his sweltering gaze to Zayn, nodding his head slightly. “I had a boy who loved me. A boy whom you also loved. A boy worthy of stealing.”

“H, please…I-”

“Zayn, you son of a bitch! Did I not just say to shut the fuck up!?” Harry shouts indignantly, interrupting Zayn’s timid pleas as he straightens his slacking arm, repositioning the gun. “You wanted to chat so…I’m fucking chatting!”

Zayn’s mouth snaps shut in earnest consternation, fearfully obeying Harry’s command.

Harry scrubs one of his hands through his hair bitterly, the other still pointing a gun towards Zayn from across the room. “God, I thought about this every single day, I even took comfort in it. Treasured solace.” Harry says, tilting his head as he looks upon Zayn. “Aside from the simple reoccurring image of Louis’ beautiful face, it was my only source of comfort as I was beaten and bruised and tortured. That one day…one glorious day…I would come back, and I would look upon your face, see the look of shock in your eyes…and _kill_ you.”

Zayn sucks in a heavy breath, face rapidly diminishing in color by the second.

“You broke me, you took everything from me! Everything!” Harry spits irately, strong voice echoing against the walls. “You shattered my life and turned it upside down! You robbed me of my happiness and stole my joy! You betrayed me, pained me in every possible way imaginable! Every fucking way!”

“First, I was mentally pained, as I was trapped within the confines of my own horrifying thoughts, the pressure and urgency of knowing that I was innocent, that I deserved none of this, plagued my mind, reminding me with every slow passing second, how wronged I was.” Harry pauses for a moment, exhaling heavily. “And some days…god…some days, I even doubted myself, like maybe I wasn’t innocent? Like maybe I actually did something wrong? I was in so much excruciating pain that I began to question my own innocence, my own sanity.”

“Second, I was physically pained, as I was abused and beaten within every inch of my fleeting life. To the point where I welcomed death with open arms and called its name as my last whispered prayer. As my only hope of relief.”

“Third, and above all, the emotional pain that you have brought upon me, as I didn't know what had happened to the only person I cared about. Not knowing where he was or how he was doing and knowing that I had no way of reaching him, knowing that he may have assumed me dead, and that he was most likely so confused and hurting…was the worst of all pains. The deepest of all sorrows. Because knowing that the person you love with all you have left inside, must be in so much pain and you can’t do a single thing to stop it, is far beyond tortuous, it’s _deathly_.”  

“Then, to essentially come back from the dead, holding on to all that deep-rooted pain and hatred and find out that the man who fucking betrayed me, up and married the love of my life…” Harry tightens his jaw, closing his heavy eyes briefly in agonized remembrance. “Oh, now that has to be the most excruciating combination of all three, mental, physical and emotional pain.”

“Harry…” Zayn outbreaths remorsefully, a hand covering his mouth. His eyes are sad and tearful, expression seeming to be sincerely pained by the weight of Harry’s words.

“And it hurts even more because you were my very best friend!” Harry screams miserably, hot tears prickling the rims of his eyes. “You were my _brother_ , Zayn! You were the only family I had left! I loved you like my own flesh and blood! I would have done anything for you! Anything! I fucking loved you with my whole heart!”

Zayn shakes his head continually, looking lost within himself and hopelessly desolate, staring at Harry’s expressive eyes with his own glistening ones.

“And now…now I _hate_ you, Zayn! I hate you for what you did! I hate you for tearing us apart! I hate you for destroying me!” Harry pulls back the slide of his G22, effectively loading the firearm, continuing to point the charged barrel directly at Zayn. “I fucking hate you so much!”

Harry’s teeth are gritted together impossibly tight, eyes raging with fire and pure hatred, but so pained and emotively miserable. Red rims pool heavily with water, overflowing down his cheeks as he aims the weapon unwaveringly.

His mind reels with memories of the two of them together, laughing and joking, _inseparable_ , essentially joined at the hip. Harry thinks back on all the good times they shared, the precious moments and cherished memories, so so long ago. But as Harry reminisces on the joys of the past, on the purities of his youth, Harry hears the eerie sounds of pained screaming and ringing of hopeless shouts, crying out mercilessly in his mind. He sees flashes of seeping claret blood, dripping forcefully into his blissful anamneses, permeating the happy nostalgia, staining any and all pleasant memoirs Harry has left of Zayn.

Every pure recollection, every valued remembrance, is shrouded in a loathsome darkness, like a toxic poison leaking unstoppably over his tormented mind. Tainting all of the brightness, all of the light, all of the goodness with an abhorrent ominous _black_. Unfeeling and void. Guilty stains shredding through the last of his virtue, deception tearing into any hints of hope, betrayal searing the last glimpses of peace, fading away to useless ash.

Along with the blinding darkness, and confusing obscurity, Harry hears voices. So many loud beckoning voices, screaming and hollering, wailing and begging. Voices upon voices, each requesting something, each at a louder, more authoritative frequency. But one powerful voice reigns supreme above them all.

Louis' voice. 

_For me…for me…let it go for me…_

Harry pulls back the trigger, raining down a series of ruthless gunshots, firing round after round mercilessly; angrily screaming as loud as his voice can carry, yelling furiously along with the resounding noise of gunfire.

Blinded by his own all-consuming hate, Harry empties the entire fifteen bullet magazine, shot by shot, bitter tears streaking his flushed cheeks, jaw strained and clenched, body tight and impossibly rigid. Harry empties the magazine completely, emptying what is left of himself along with it.

The room falls disturbingly quiet, dead silence spreading across the space, until Harry lets out the shaky breath he had been holding in the cavity of his lungs. He drops the black gun weakly to the floor, letting it slip from his faint fingers.

Hyperventilating wildly, his chest rises and falls at alarming rates, trying to regain control over his panicked body. Hot tears fall profusely from Harry’s eyes, now squeezed shut as he leans over against his knees. However, the weight of his own heavy body is far too much for him to sustain and he crumbles to the floor along with the empty gun.

Harry curls in on himself, making his shuddering body as small as humanly possible as he sobs into his knees. Crying through all his oscillating emotions; he hasn’t allowed himself to feel so much in such a long time, he hasn’t let his guard down like this in ages.

But Harry let his guard down with Louis. He gave into him and allowed himself to be open and vulnerable, susceptible to heartache, defenseless against any and all attack. And all those feelings Harry has kept stuffed in a bottle, kept in remission deep down inside have proved time and time again to be his Achilles’ heel, completely assailable.

“Harry?”

“He loves you.” Harry cries softly, hauntingly quiet as he rocks himself back and forth on the floor, trying so desperately to sooth his mind, sooth his body, sooth his heart. “Louis loves you.”

After moments of stretched out silence, Harry lifts his head observing his own handiwork for the first time. A mirage of bullet holes litter the wall around Zayn, obliterating picture frames and piercing through priceless art, some holes placed dangerously close to Zayn’s head, but leaving him completely unscathed, unharmed.

Zayn remains perfectly still, breathing heavily, adrenaline spiked as he watches Harry silently with wide eyes, not daring to move a single inch.

“Somehow…despite everything…despite it all…he…he… _loves_ you…” Harry sobs, fragmented voice defeated.

“And I…” Harry starts again, shaking his head in disbelief, casting his gaze to the ceiling as saltwater rolls down his cheeks in silent waves. “I…can’t…” Harry is so overcome that he is unable to even finish his words, his body frantically raking as he shutters and quivers on the floor.

Louis never said it with his words explicitly, he never rubbed it in Harry’s face or forced it down his throat but Harry knew. He knew in that moment of hesitation, in the slight falter and the disinclination of Louis’ voice.

The moment Louis mentioned Zayn was the moment Harry realized that Louis, his Louis, had fallen in love with someone that wasn’t him.  

Louis couldn’t leave Zayn because somewhere along the line, he had fallen for Zayn. And that realization hurt Harry the most. It’s one thing to be married to someone, it’s another thing to love them. Harry can attempt to overlook a hollow marriage, he can turn a blind eye to a decade of empty commitment, if those things where done out of desperation and loneliness but it is another thing entirely if real love is involved. If it wasn’t just a meaningless legal agreement but an act of devotion, of loyalty, of love.

Harry scrubs his hands harshly across the raw skin of his face, dragging his red rimmed eye sockets down. He sniffles loudly, rubbing the back of hand against his runny nose, before meeting Zayn’s eyes with his own.

“As much as you've wronged me…as much as I hate the very air you breathe and as much as I want the blood that runs through your veins splattered violently across the wall…” Harry utters in low dark tones, eyes squinted. “I will not harm a single hair on your head.”

“What?” Zayn breaks his silence; mouth open in astonishment as he breathes deeply.

“Louis loves you!” Harry screams, suddenly laughing darkly, madly, knowing he sounds borderline insane. But at this point, how can he not? He picks up the abandoned gun at his side and fiddles with it, tossing it between both his hands. “He fucking loves you!”

Harry blows out a weighted gust of air, throwing his head back as his deranged laughter subsides. “And if Louis loves you…then I've already lost. If he indeed truly loves you more than he loves me…who am I to stand in your way, who am I to hurt him anymore?” Harry raises his head to meet Zayn’s baffled eyes again. “I would rather die a thousand deaths daily and keep on living knowing that you still walk the earth with Louis at your side, than hurt him anymore. He doesn't deserve that. I can't take you from him in an act of selfish revenge.”

Shaking his head blindly, Zayn can only gaze at Harry in absolute disbelief, opening his mouth to talk, but no words arising again.

“God! I wish I could…I wish that so fucking much but…I can’t…” Harry tears his eyes away from Zayn, staring once again at the ground beneath him.

“I have the ability to end you, to end this war between us. To shoot you in the head and be rid of you once and for all.” Harry squeezes his knees tightly close to his chest, trying to hold himself together. “But in doing so, in satisfying my own selfish gain and catering to the hateful desires of my vengeful flesh…I’d be hurting Louis. And I could never hurt him like that, like the way that you hurt me. I would never wish that kind of pain on anyone, above all, not on the man I love more than I love myself.” 

“So I will bear this weight…” Harry takes in a deep self-soothing breath. “I will carry this heavy burden with me forever, knowing that you still live to see yet another day, knowing that Louis stands beside you, knowing that I could have killed you, that I could have avenged all the wrong you've done to me.” 

Harry slowly stands to his feet, still holding the empty weapon in his hands. “Yes, I will bear this weight that is crushing my feeble body and suffocating my tired lungs, the weight that feels like a twisting dagger to my already bleeding broken heart, the weight that is _killing_ me. I will bear it because I'm already dead inside anyway.  Because I'm numb and empty and I can't feel anything anymore. Because I don’t know who I am, but I know that I’d rather shoulder that heavy weight on my hardened shoulders then cast it all on him. Because…I _love_ him.”

Dropping back into his desk chair overwhelmed, Zayn runs his shaky hands through his hair, misty eyes never leaving Harry.

“The hardest thing I will ever do in this wretched life is... _let go_...” Harry whispers pained, breathing heavy. “Is forgive you. The love I have for Louis....it overpowers me; it overpowers the sincere loathing I have etched in my heart for you. For him, and only him, I’m walking away from this.” 

Zayn continually remains outright stock-still, staring at Harry with a slack jaw, most likely in a state of paralyzing disbelief.

“Take care of him, Zayn.” Harry instructs quietly, dejectedly, turning on his heels to leave. “Love him as much as I do and even more. Give him all I never could.”

Zayn sits at his desk utterly motionless, staring in utter shock after Harry, as he silently leaves his study without another word.

Somehow Harry’s body feels so empty, just as empty as the cartridge of his gun, yet at the same time, so heavy. His legs drag beneath him, shoulders slumped and weighed down. Harry stumbles blindly, brokenly, knowing that he will never be liberated, never be free from the oppressive strings attached to his soul, with nothing to rescue him from himself. Forever haunted in this horrendous life.

Harry feels so tired, so hollow and annulled. He just wants to lay down, close his eyes and never wake up, never _ever_ wake up. Never remember.

Oh, how he wishes to never remember.

 

* * *

 

“You’re still here.” Harry exhales weakly as he steps into the front living room of his home, closing the heavy door behind him.

“I…um…I couldn’t bring myself to leave.” Louis answers softly, curled up on a long black couch, body swimming in Harry’s black hoodie. He sits up slowly, gaze downcast, lashes fanning out against his cheeks. “Is…is Zayn…is he…”

“No.”

Louis looks up, meeting Harry’s eyes, expression deeply clouded and complex. “But you... I thought that…but…why?” He rambles in confusion, brows perplexed.

Harry shifts on his feet anxiously, breaking eye contact with Louis to stare at his own hands intertwined in front of him.

“Did you…did you do it for me?” Louis questions quietly, staring unblinkingly at Harry, breathing patterns quickening. “Did you let him live because…of me?”

Harry continues to ignore Louis, fiddling his fingers quietly before suddenly crossing the vast room and turning into a separate hallway of the house.

“Harry?” Louis lifts himself from the couch and follows Harry, footsteps padding lightly behind him. “Please talk to me.”

Harry pauses, his heavily breathing back still facing Louis as he stares straight ahead down the long corridor. “I can’t live like this; I can’t stay here anymore.”

“What?” Louis ceases the movement of his feet, head tilted in question.

“This is goodbye.” Harry whispers over his shoulder, before continuing his strides down the hall, walking into his bedroom.

“Goodbye?” Louis echoes in question, the frequency of his voice raising in alarm as he once again follows after Harry. “Where are you going?”

“I'm leaving, Louis. I'm washing my hands of this and I am leaving. I've had enough and I can't watch as...you and... _him_...and I just...I have to go. I promise I'll never interfere with your marriage or bother you and-” 

“Bother me? What?” Louis reaches out for Harry, attempting to pull him into his arms in an embrace. “Harry-” 

“No Louis! No!” Harry recoils from Louis’ touch, retreating further into the room. “Don't touch me! Stop! Just stop it!” 

“Harry please! You can't leave! You can't leave me!” Louis screams, scraping his fingers through his wild hair. “Not again…I can’t lose you again!”

“What do you expect me to do!?” Harry shouts back, raising his arms up in hopeless frustration. “I would do anything for you! I came back for you and only you, I did all this for you! And you're married, Louis! To him! To my former best friend! To my enemy! You're fucking married to Zayn! But not only that...you _love_ him.” Harry’s voice drops down to an anguished whisper. “You truly love him.”

Louis doesn’t deny Harry’s words, simply opening and closing his mouth several times, shaking his head as if he just doesn’t have the words. “Harry, I...”

“Don't lie to me Louis. Just don’t.” Harry requests weakly. “You’re in love with Zayn, I know you are...and I…I don't blame you. I could never blame you, my love. You knew no better; a blind pawn in the whole scheme. He held you when you needed it most, he took care of you, he was there for you, he loved you and you came to love him and…I’m sure what you have in your marriage with him is special and...I don't blame you.” Harry turns away from Louis again, beginning to move around the room. “But I just...I can't. I can't stay here.”

“No, no, no.” Louis refuses, shaking his head adamantly, saltwater rimming his eyes. “You can’t leave.”

Harry proceeds to stuff random articles of clothing into a black duffle bag, pacing about the room in a hurry. “I can’t watch you be with him, watch you love him…I can't stay here and be reminded of everything that was taken from me, of everything I’ll never have again.”

“But…Harry, I love you.” Louis declares, as though it will solve everything. “I love you…”

“You did love me, I know, baby, I know.” Harry nods solemnly, stopping to search Louis’ pleading eyes. “And maybe a part of you still does somewhere. But the Harry you loved is dead. I'm not that boy anymore, Louis…and I never will be. We aren't the same people. How can we be? We’ve seen too much, lived through too much. We aren’t an innocent teenage couple desperately in love anymore, we are full grown adults in our thirties. Our lives have gone in separate directions. And it’s unfortunate and sad because I’m so beyond certain, like…there isn’t a single doubt in my mind, that we would have had a beautiful life together.”

Harry drops the bag to the floor, stepping closer to Louis slowly. “I picture it sometimes you know? The life we should have had.”

Louis stands completely still, gazing at Harry, utterly broken and lost.

“I would finish school, finally get a degree in accounting and you would tease me about how that is such a lame job and I’ll become a boring waste of space.” Harry starts, eyes locked on Louis. “You would say that before we become slaves to the world and chain ourselves to a monotonous desk and get adult jobs, that we should travel the world and see how everyone else lives, see the sights and all that.”

“So we would.” Harry can’t help but smile gently at the pleasant idea. “Together we would see the world and develop our own opinions on life. And after everything, after we’d had our fun and lived through our twenties, with adventures to look back on and memories in our pockets, we would get married and settle down in a quaint little neighborhood. A normal neighborhood, like you always wanted, with everyday average people as our neighbors.”

A faint ghost of a smile passes over Louis’ saddened face as he listens silently to Harry’s words.

“I’d get that boring office job and you would excel as a brilliant writer and you would host book club meetings at our house and invite all our lame dull neighbors.” Harry continues redolently. “And then you would bitch about how uncultured they are afterwards and how it was your assigned mission in life to educate the uncivilized, but you’d secretly love every minute of it.” Harry smiles sadly, laughing lightly to himself.

“We would have three kids and we’d vow to raise them in a loving home with no pressure to be anything they didn’t want to be or do anything they didn’t want to do. They wouldn’t have to uphold their family legacy or any bullshit like that.” Harry explains thoughtfully. “We would never force them to learn French or play the violin or take etiquette lessons or enroll them in fancy overpriced private education, they would be free to live and grow into whatever their hearts wanted.”

“And we would probably stress over money from time to time, strained by the costs of raising kids and paying a mortgage on a limited income.” Harry describes thoughtfully. “But we would always pull through and find a way to make it.”

“We would be happy and we would be in love.” Harry’s eyes glisten with fresh sorrowful tears. “You and me, growing old together, living out our lives, blissfully carefree.”

Louis lets out a choked sob that he seemed to have been holding in for a while, a shaky hand covering over his mouth as his eyes flutter closed.

“And I _wish_ …” Harry breathes out miserably, wiping his leaking eyes. “I wish with all my heart that we could’ve had that life. That simple boring life. A normal, _happy_ life.”

Louis shoulders shutter desolately, as sobs overtake his frail body, moving his hands to cover his whole face. 

“But we didn’t have a chance to. And it’s so unfair that the original cards we were dealt went up in flames, that we were cheated out of our happy simple life together. But now…” Harry shakes his head, voice deeply pained as he watches Louis weep forlornly. “Now at the point we are now, I can't ask you to leave with me, no more than you can ask me to stay.”  

“No…please Harry, don't.” Louis cries weakly, red-rimmed eyes silently pleading as he lifts his head. “We may not have what we were meant to…but I still love you, any version of you, all forms of you. Just you. I need you, baby. I just…I need time to think and process but I need you, Haz. I _know_ you, I still know you and I need you. Please don’t leave me.”

“You don't know me, Louis. Not anymore.”

Louis looks small and impossibly lost, watery streaks rolling down his face. “But I…I don't know who I married either...and I...”

“Zayn loves you, Louis. He really loves you. And you love him…and it wouldn’t be fair of me to put pressure on you to choose between us. Not when he is all you know, when he is the one who has been everything for you in the last twelve years.” Harry acknowledges, head bowed. “You’ve been married to him longer than we were ever together and the gap between that time and this one is almost infinite in reality.”

“No…Harry it’s not, it’s different…I don’t know…I just…”

“I'll always love you and I'll never forget what we had.” Harry says softly, emotion wavering over his weakened voice. “You're the only man I've ever loved and ever will love. I know that you know, deep down, that this is how it must be…I'm not right for you anymore. As much as I wish I was, as much as I wish we could turn back time and start a fresh, I know that right now, in this moment in time, I'm not the one for you. I know that you’re not mine anymore, I know that I can’t make you happy. So as much as it hurts me, I’m going to let you go.”

“Please…” Louis begs, reaching to cling to Harry tightly, arms locked around his body. “Don't.” 

Harry doesn’t fight against Louis’ strong embrace, allowing him to press exceedingly close.

“Stay.” Louis cries hopelessly, nuzzling his head into Harry’s chest, desperately pleading. “Stay with me, baby. Please stay…I don’t want you to leave… _stay.._.”

“Goodbye, my love.” Harry cups his hands around Louis’ face, tilting his head up. He leans down to tenderly press their lips together for the very last time, in a sorrowful adieu. Their mutual tears mix together in mourning of what is lost, what is forgone, what is sacrificed.

“Live as though I'm with you _always_.” Harry whispers against Louis’ cheek as he breaks away from their lingering parting kiss. 

Louis sobs heavily against Harry’s chest, refusing to let go, arms still clinched tightly around his middle. Louis’ tears seep though the material of Harry’s shirt, while Harry’s own drip soundlessly to the top of Louis’ hair.

Harry presses a final soft kiss to the crown of Louis’ head. With much difficulty he pries his body away from Louis’ firm grip, causing him to collapse weakly to the floor. Louis draws his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth, curled in on himself as he wails desolately.

“Bye Lou.” Harry murmurs miserably as he turns away, picking up his poorly packed bag before walking out of the room, out of the house, out of Louis’ life, shutting the door softly behind him.

He may be haunted eternally, his dark broken soul may never find peace, but he can only hope that maybe the silence of space may make it better, that maybe time will make his wounds heal, that maybe he won’t be lost forever.

Through the door, Harry can hear Louis’ cries loud and clear in his head, echoing against the hallowed halls of the house. Harry places a hand longingly against the solid wood of the door, closing his eyes around the haunting, agonizing sounds of sorrow.

Back in the cold of his stone cell, Liam once told him that the truest and deepest love of all is one that suffers all things, and any thing, one that replaces selfish need for selflessness and sacrifice. Harry now understands that to be true as his heart was just brutally sacrificed all in the name of love. His love for Louis.

When his mind is telling him to go back and his heart is telling him to hold on, real love is having the strength to _let go_. 

 

* * *

_“For all evils there are two remedies - time and silence._

_When you compare the sorrows of real life to the pleasures of the imaginary one, you will never want to live again, only to dream forever.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_


	7. Act VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you thank you thank you to all of you who continually read this i love you all. :))

 

** Act VII **

 

_“Without reflecting that this is the only moment in which you can study character, on the steps of the scaffold, death tears off the mask that has been worn through life, and the real visage is disclosed.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_

 

* * *

 

“Niall, I'm leaving.” Harry announces as he bursts through the doors of their safe-house, oddly paralleling his earlier visit. He finds Niall hunched over a large bowl of cereal, eyes lazily scanning the screen of his tablet.

“What Sunshine?” Niall asks, spoon floating in the air near his mouth as he lifts his head to gaze at Harry questioningly. 

“I can't stay anymore, I thought that I could finish this…I really thought that I…” Harry drops off, voice fading weakly as he closes his eyes to steady himself, to calm his still racing mind. “But…I can't. I'm not strong enough…and honestly, I don’t care to be. I don’t have it in me.” 

“What exactly happened today?” Niall probes slowly, dropping his spoon to rest against the rim of his bowl. “I assume that-”

“Zayn is fine.” Harry confesses heavily, finishing Niall’s inquiry as he roughly scrubs his hands over his face. “I didn’t…I didn’t kill him.”

Niall nods his head gradually, sitting silently for a while before continuing. “Why not?”

“I just…it doesn’t matter…” Harry sighs, really not wanting to talk about this at all.

Actually, Harry would rather just not talk ever again, if that was an option. He put so much stock into killing Zayn, into the idea of finally being rid of him. So much in fact, that Harry somehow came to the conclusion that it was the one and only thing that would give him any semblance of release, of _peace_.

And now, standing faced with the aftershock of it all, Harry is not sure if he’s more upset that he will never have that satisfaction or that the satisfaction he hoped to get from it is actually nonexistent and void. Killing Zayn won’t ease the venomous tension, it won’t fix his damaged soul or even make him feel any better.

Nothing will.

Niall’s phone buzzes noisily against the metal table, vibrating incessantly. He leans down to look at the new message, readily unlocking the screen curiously.

“Anyway Ni, the point is that I’m not staying anymore.” Harry continues, snapping back to reality. “And I don’t know where the fuck I’m going so don’t ask…all I know is that I am going and I’m sorry that I’m leaving all of this unfinished but-”

“Wait…but, you can't leave now…” Niall protests interrupting Harry’s farewell monologue, as he distractedly reads the seemingly important message on his phone.

Harry shrugs, unbothered and unfeeling, looking as though he is far beyond any hope of reform or reproach. “Well, I am so-”

“No Harry, listen…it _worked_.” Niall announces in a genuinely surprised pitch, still gazing down at the illumed screen.

“What worked?” Harry frowns, looking to Niall curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Our plan worked.” Niall clarifies, standing to his feet and walking over to Harry, showing him the message displayed on his phone screen. “The Agency just got word that Simon is flying out to L.A.”

“Ok?” Harry huffs, not caring in the slightest about the significance. “That’s great but I’m still leaving regardless.”

“Harry, Simon is here, in town…to meet _you_.” Niall emphasizes. “To meet Alexandre de la Pailleterie in person. His very eager, very wealthy investor, whom he has most likely heard so much about. I guess Zayn must have rushed the meeting and got him to come to the city.”

“How is that possible?” Harry scoffs skeptically, furrowing his brow deeply at the notion. 

Niall shrugs, pocketing his phone. “I really don't know but...I'm not questioning it.”

“Well I am.” Harry declares boldly. “Zayn isn’t dumb, he’s always been brilliant, so by now, there is no way in hell he hasn’t figured out why I’m so anxious to meet with his boss. Zayn _knows_ who I am. He knows I'm not a real investor and yet he still called Simon here to meet me?” Harry shakes his head adamantly, carding his fingers through his hair. “He fucking _knows_ who I fucking am, Niall!  Zayn _knows_ I killed Ben. He _knows_ I could have killed him too. I mean, for fucks sake, I just shot over a dozen bullets at his head only an hour ago!”

“Yes, all those things are true, but-” 

“But nothing!” Harry shouts suddenly, lifting his hands. “Something isn't right about this, you have to see that. There is something extremely wrong with this picture. Why would Zayn set himself up like that? Set Simon up like that? It doesn’t make any sense.” 

“You think it could be some kind of trap?” Niall wonders, pulling his phone back out of his back pocket.

“It could be.” Harry nods his head side to side, thinking to himself as he tugs on his bottom lip with his teeth. “I honestly wouldn't put it past either of them.”

“Well, we can't send you in then.” Niall concludes, starting to type a message out on his phone.

“Why not? I’m going.” Harry asserts decisively, suddenly all too willing to help.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Niall creases his features in genuine confusion, lifting his free hand to Harry in true disbelief. “Moments ago, when there was seemingly far less danger involved you were repeatedly declining this meeting and insisted upon fleeing to wherever the fuck. And now that you know it may be some kind of trap, you are suddenly ready to go and volunteering yourself. Do you have a death wish or something?”

“Maybe Niall! Maybe I fucking do! Goddammit! And if I want to die then fucking let me do it!” Harry roars angrily, unexpectedly lashing out. He steps back, taking several pauses to calm his steadily rising pulse and manic heartbeat. He didn’t mean to attack Niall, his body is just so on edge and tense, even the slightest dispute is enough to cause him to snap abruptly. “Sorry…I didn’t mean to yell at you…I’m trying…I’m…I…”

“I know, Sunshine.” Niall nods in understanding, eyes saddened as he tilts his head at Harry. “I know how angry you are inside and all the stress you feel pressing against you. It’s not easy and I get that. But I care about you and I don’t want to see any more awful things happen to you.”

Harry sighs dejectedly, hanging his head lowly. “I don't care anymore. I just don’t fucking care. If I live, so be it. if I die, so be it. Whatever. Either option seems perfectly equal to me at this point. I’ll be in hell either way. There is no winning angle for me.”

“That’s not true, Harry.” Niall protests softly, stepping slightly closer. “Your life is worth more than that.”

“I'll do the meeting, ok.” Harry chooses to answer, purposely ignoring Niall’s statement. “I’ll get the ledger and I’ll finish this.”

“Are you sure?” Niall tries again. “You don’t have to do this, you don’t have to do anything, you don’t owe anyone.”

“Just let me do this.” Harry utters quietly, in a gust of tired breath, almost on the verge of begging as he meets Niall’s eyes. “It's our last shot at exposing them, at taking down Simon and ending Blackstone. I’ll do it…let me do it.”

Niall holds Harry’s pleading stare, unshed communication conveyed between them in the silence. “Ok…” Niall starts, breaking eye contact and settling his gaze on the floor. “Let’s get you ready then.”

 

* * *

 

Harry finds himself walking into the high rise, skyscraper building of Blackstone Limited Partnership, completely and unnervingly blind. He rides to the very top floor feeling quite disconcerted about the uncharted situation before him, essentially naked and vulnerable.

Yet, as he approaches the one and only massive office on the top floor, Harry also feels somewhat at peace. Regardless of the outcome of this meeting, something is ending. Whether it be him or Simon or this goddamn company. Something is coming to an abrupt end. Tonight.

As it is rather late into the evening, the floor is unsettlingly deserted, only the eerie light leaking out from under the closed office door to illuminate his slowly paced steps. Harry raps his knuckles firmly against the door, trying not to fidget as he awaits a response.

The door swings open and suddenly Harry is standing face to face with the one and only Simon Cowell. A certain level of discomfort is automatically afforded in the presence of this malicious man. He is just as callous and stone-faced as Harry remembers him to be, the unwelcoming vibes radiating from him giving Harry immediate chills.

“Alexandre de la Pailleterie.” Simon addresses slowly, staring Harry dead in the eye as he speaks. “So lovely of you to join me at this late hour. I’m never in town very long and this was the very best I could do to ensure our meeting. I do hope you don’t mind.” Simon continues, as he offers out his hand in a welcoming shake. “I've heard so much about you.” 

“And I, you.” Harry answers with a forced tight lipped smile, shaking Simon’s cold hand firmly and trying his best to hold steady eye contact. There is something alarming in Simon’s russet eyes, something bothersome. It’s like his hard gaze is missing natural human warmth, completely lacking any trace of genuineness or sincerity. 

Furthermore, Simon also has a way of speaking, a way of coaxing deceiving words, sweet-talking blatant lies and somehow disguising his true intent, all the while a strong sense of dread and trepidation loams in the foreground. The level of conning tactic and poise possessed by this man is not only disquieting, but dangerously mystifying.  

“Only good things, I hope.” Simon smirks pompously, walking across the wooden floor and settling comfortably in his grand leather seat behind his heavy dark wood desk.

Offering no verbal response, Harry silently follows Simon into the room, straining his cheeks even tighter, to almost painful levels, trying not to grimace as he remains standing in front of Simon’s desk.

“Well, we have much to discuss.” Simon says, gesturing to the seat across from his desk gingerly. “Please have a seat, Alexandre. Or do you go by Alex?”

“Uh…Alex is fine.” Harry utters, settling down slowly in the seat across the heavy framed desk. Honestly, neither is fine and Harry would very much like to furiously scream that his name isn’t Alex or Alexandre or any other bullshit name, but actually Harry motherfucking Styles.

“Alright.” Simon leans over the desk and crosses his hands together. “Now Alex, Zayn has repeatedly insisted that you are a rather outstanding individual, stressing your capable talents time and time again. He believes that you would be an invaluable asset to Blackstone.” Simon informs, eyes squinted in observation. “And judging by your background and the contents of my file on you, I’d have to agree. The accolades you’ve achieved in your lifetime are rather incredible to say the least.”

“Mmm.” Harry hums in acknowledgement, stroking his chin with his cheeks still painfully strained. What else did Zayn say about him? And why didn’t he tell Simon the truth? Simon seems to have not a single inkling that Harry is not who he says he is. Niall and The Agency truly did an impeccable job at concreting his highly decorated and appealing file, adorning it beautifully with ample successes and endeavors. Alexandre de la Pailleterie’s file reads so wonderfully, in fact, that Harry wishes he was actually him sometimes.

“As you probably know, I’m a man of action and I don’t really see why we should waste any more time and beat around the bush with this.” Simon announces, slapping his hands down on the surface of the desk.

“Why wait?” Harry plasters on a brilliant simulated smile, forcefully chuckling. As Harry forces himself to engage in this conversation, he feels the reassuring weight of his gun burning against his back, almost calling out to him, itching to be utilized.

“Exactly, I agree!” Simon enthuses, grinning smugly. “Well, due to some unforeseen and unfortunate circumstances, a vacancy has made a sudden appearance. And as the position must be filled immediately, I think you just might be the man for the job. How would you like to officially join our team and become the COO of Blackstone?”

Why wait is right, Harry thinks, growing more and more impatient with each passing second. Simon obviously has no idea who he is and Harry came here for a specific purpose. Now that he has Simon within his grasp there is no need to keep up with appearances anymore, no need to prolong this charade when he could just take action. Because…why wait?

“I actually had something different in mind.” Harry counters, adjusting his position in his chair.

Simon raises an eyebrow out of curiosity, lips quirked in bewilderment as he looks to Harry. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Harry confirms simply, smoothly drawing the weapon from his back waistband, extending it calmly in front of him. “Where is the company ledger?”

Simon doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash at the barrel of a gun pointed towards him, acting as though nothing has even changed. “Of what interest is that to you?”

“Maybe not me particularly…” Harry stands to his feet, gun never wavering in his grasp. “But to others.”

Simon leisurely watches Harry round the desk and approach him, the epitome of composure. “Others such as?”

“Others who were fucked over by bastards like you.” Harry asserts, facing Simon on his side of the desk. “Obviously.”

“Mmm.” Simon purrs evenly, nodding his head in gradual understanding. “Who do you work for? I assure you that whatever they are paying you I can do _so_ much better.”

Harry squints his eyes, positioning the firearm against Simon’s head. “I'll ask you one more time…Where is the ledger?”

Simon leans back in his chair, eyeing Harry with what appears to be amusement, an odd shimmer of glee in his eye. “See, I like you Alex, you’re bold and quite fearless. Not afraid to get your hands dirty and go after what you want, despite it all. I appreciate someone like that on my team. You hold much promise, Alex.”

This man can be nothing but mentally deranged and utterly mad. Only a toxic, unstable person would sit in serenity at the possible threat of imminent death. Harry has a loaded gun, pointed and ready to fire at Simon’s head and yet he seems delighted. What the actual fuck?

Harry inclines his head, grinning depreciatingly. “Oh please, excuse my forgetfulness…I must have misspoken…I prefer, _Harry._ ”

Simon stares at Harry oddly, a hand under his chin as he tries to place the familiarity of the name. “Ahh…Harry Styles. Well, I’ll be damned. I thought there was something familiar about you.” Simon nods his head in remembrance, looking Harry up and down pointedly. “My, how you’ve _evolved_.”

“Are you disappointed?” Harry inquires, firearm still aimed readily.

“Impressed actually.” Simon smirks from his deep burgundy leather chair, still remaining the least bit alarmed. “If you were as resourceful as you are now, maybe we could have found better use for you back then.”

“I only met you once.” Harry states, speaking slowly in an attempt to remain levelheaded. “One single time over that horrid summer. I was no one of value, no one of worth, no one of importance. Especially not to you.”

“Exactly.” Simon agrees simply. “That’s why you were the perfect person to pin everything on.”

“I was only eighteen!”  Harry shouts angrily, sensing the resentful feelings building up inside him again in hot flashes. “I was just a kid!”

“Oh don’t be so dramatic. It wasn't personal, Harry.” Simon scoffs uncaringly, shrugging his shoulders against the leather of his chair. “You were at the wrong place at the wrong time, and you happened to know the wrong people at the wrong time. It was unfortunate, I suppose, but it was really just business.”

“Business!?” Harry spits disgustedly at the sheer indifference of Simon’s cool tone, the apathy towards human life. “You fucking ruined my entire life! The life of an innocent person, the life of a young blameless boy, who new nothing of how the world worked! You stole my innocence!” 

“Well, you seem to have done alright for yourself now.” Simon dismisses easily, impassive. “Despite, you know…circumstance.”

“Oh, yeah of course.” Harry leers mordantly, gritting his teeth in detestation. “If by ‘alright’, you mean that the vessel by which my soul is tragically confined to is still standing and moving and breathing. And if by ‘alight’, you mean that I'm still relatively in my own right mind and able-bodied enough to take down this fucking company then…yeah sure. I'm doing ‘ _alright_ ’.”

“Aww don’t be so bitter, Harry. No need for theatrics and melodramatic speeches. You’re alive, aren’t you? And you’ve still got your whole life ahead of you. You’re only what? Thirty years old now? There is still time, you’re young.” Simon watches Harry closely, complacent grin still painted his self-satisfied face. “Oh, but what is it? Did everything not turn out as you wanted? Were there some complications along the way?”

Harry remains silent, scowling unwaveringly at Simon with his G22 still charged in his firm grasp, aimed directly at his target.

“Mmm there was!” Simon exclaims, taking Harry’s silence as an answer. He claps his hands together, belittling Harry rudely. “Something must not have gone according to plan. How very, very unfortunate.”

“Stop.” Harry demands simply, not amused in the slightest.

“Ohh, I know.” Simon smiles devilishly, a dark glint in his eye. “I know exactly what it is. He doesn’t want you. Am I right? You did all this, you came back and you changed yourself into a whole new person and yet….he still doesn’t want you. What ill-fated luck you have, Harry Styles.”

Harry exhales heavily, willing his mind and body to stay focused on the matter at large, trying greatly not to let his focus and determination get away from him, not allow his resolve to be swayed.  

“Oh Harry, what did you really expect? That he would be so blindly enraptured by the fact that you’re alive that he would leave everything at the drop of a hat and run away with you? Leave his devoted and loving husband, who truthfully, has a lot more going for him than you ever did.” Simon tosses his head and laughs evilly, his villainous nature shining. “Didn’t think I would know about that, huh? Yes, I know all about it. I know all about the three of you and the doomed dynamic you shared.” Simon narrows his eyes at Harry, voice laced with unashamed manipulation. “More importantly, I know all about _you._ ”

“You don’t know me.” Harry utters determinedly, but his statement comes out weaker than he meant it to.  

“But I do. We may not have had the pleasure of being close in the flesh, but I know you, Harry Styles. I know all the people I’ve framed; how else would it ever be a success? I like my work to be impeccable and flawless, leaving no end untied. Incriminating you was probably one of the easiest things I’ve ever done.” Simon insults ruthlessly. “It’s a shame you didn’t actually die in prison. I’m sure you wouldn’t have lasted much longer in there anyway, especially not with that pretty face of yours.”

“Enough.” Harry grunts through his teeth, pressing the barrel of the gun roughly to Simon’s temple. “Your voice is revolting.”

“They wasted no time, you know?” Simon adds suddenly. “I bet they hardly even missed you at all.”

“What?” Harry asks, not knowing why he is even entertaining this shit conversation.

“I was at their wedding. It was such a beautiful service, very heartwarming. Everyone could feel just how in love they were, how much they truly cared for each other and relied on one another. Mmm, it was _inspiring_. I’m always a sucker for true love.” Simon taunts brutally with a smirk, wanting so much to damage Harry even further. “Not a single thought was given about you. Not that day, or the days that followed. You were and always will be irrelevant.”

“If you’re desperately diluted enough to think that you can fucking manipulate me after all of this, you’re more insane than I even imagined.” Harry spits, digging the end of the weapon into Simon’s flesh.

“Louis doesn’t want you. He never wanted you, He doesn’t love you.” Simon continues spitefully, trying to get into Harry’s head. “He obviously didn’t choose you. Louis loves Zayn and he always will. How could you ever think he would choose you over Zayn? Over his husband, to whom he has devoted the past decade to? He probably wishes you really were dead so he wouldn’t have to deal with the sad basket case you’ve become. What a burden that must be.”

“Shut up! Fucking enough of this!” Harry lifts the gun and angrily whacks Simon over the head with the base of it, the handle connecting with his cranium, giving off a loud cracking sound.

Simon chuckles darkly in reaction, fresh blood leaking from his wounded temple, dripping down his face in slow red rivers.

“I don’t have time for your psychopathic bullshit!” Harry declares, voice regaining spiteful force. “Where is the ledger!?”

Simon lulls his head down, crimson droplets leaking down to the floor as he continues to laugh ominously, even manically. The disturbing nature of his portentous laughs haunts the entire room.

“Where is it!?” Harry shouts impatiently, pulling the slide of the G22 back, repositioning the gun back towards Simon’s head. He isn’t playing these stupid mind games anymore; this needs to end.

Simon continues to ignore Harry’s prompts, dismally cackling to himself. Harry yanks Simon’s head up by his hair, forcing him to meet his resolute eyes.

“Where the fuck is it!?” Harry swiftly points the weapon down at Simon’s kneecaps, wasting no time in shooting him precisely through his right patella, the short range fire of the bullet causing the circular bone to instantly shatter, bodily fluid sputtering amply from his shredded knee. “I’m not asking again!”

Simon immediately cries out in pain, laughter finally ceasing as he falls to the floor, unable to support himself properly with one leg.

“If you don’t show me where the motherfucking records are, you will never fucking walk again.” Harry threatens through his teeth, aiming the weapon at Simon’s unscathed left kneecap. “You only have two knees.”

“Alright! Alright!” Simon shouts from the ground, clutching his leaking wound, but not making any further moves.

“Get up!” Harry yells assertively, firing the gun near Simon’s leg, purposefully missing to prove a point. “Get the fuck up now!”

Simon weakly hobbles up, putting his weight to his good side, as his injured leg remains limp and useless. With much difficulty, he stumbles across the vast office, supporting himself with the wall, leaving a red trail of blood behind him. Simon reaches an enormous book case, moving a few strategically placed books aside to reveal a sleek keypad. Moving with no haste at all, Simon tediously punches in a series of digits causing the bookcase to smoothly slide open, revealing a state of the art steel safe.

Simon stands in front of the safe, blatantly not wanting to open it, operating with all the speed of a snail. Harry crosses the room swiftly, arm still extended with the loaded firearm.

“Open it.” Harry grits firmly, tone gruff and unfalteringly stern. He presses the tip of the weapon to the back of Simon’s head harshly, burrowing it into his skull with heavy force.

Remaining silent and unmoving, Simon’s hand hovers over the safety mechanism, pausing for several more moments without starting the security clearance process.

“Open it!” Harry shouts boisterously, raising his voice in a roaring unfaltering command.

Sluggishly, Simon presses his fingers down on the full hand scanner, holding it until the panel glows green. He then proceeds to type in another authorization code, causing a retina scanner to timely appear.

Next, after scanning his eye, Simon is prompted by a voice recognition sequence to which he gracefully utters a string of ordered words, in a tongue resembling Italian. The safe clicks open softly, granting access after successfully fulfilling the drawn out safety measures.

Simon holds the door of the safe open and Harry's eyes widen as his eyes settle on the contents of the unit. He notices a silver pistol next to the external hard drive containing the ledger, but by the time he recognizes the weapon, Harry is seconds too late. In one swift motion Simon grabs the gun and cocks it, swinging his arm to shoot Harry. Harry dodges to the left just in time, the bullet grazing non-terminally across the skin of his upper arm. 

Harry lets out a pained yelp, surging forward to barrel into Simon before he has a chance to fire the weapon again. The impact of the charge disorients Simon, allowing Harry to knock the gun from his hand to the wooden floor.  With his own automatic firearm still in hand, Harry wrestles Simon down to the ground, using his free clenched fist to throw a solid punch square against Simon’s jaw as he kneels on top of him.

Struggling around on the floor, Simon spits blood in Harry’s face as an attempt to disorient him, but ironically Harry couldn’t care less, it wouldn’t be the first time blood has been splattered across his face. Instead of pausing, Harry slams another blow to Simon’s temple, causing him to groan loudly in pain.

Simon mutters vulgar threats and pointed insults in between his pained grunts, attempting once again to manipulate Harry’s mind through the power of speech. Repeatedly Simon throws Zayn and Louis’ names at Harry, hissing through his blood-spattered teeth about how worthless Harry is, about how he is unwanted and even unlovable.

“Look at you!” Simon spits hatefully. “Who could ever fucking love you?! Your own best friend didn’t even give a shit about you!”

Harry’s long hair hangs in front of his face as his eyes flash angrily, placing his hand around Simon’s throat and squeezing as hard as he possibly can, Simon sputtering underneath him. Harry raises his other gunned hand, leaning back slightly to point the barrel at Simon’s head. “Go to fucking hell, you son of a bitch!”

With a gust of surprise determination, Simon backhands Harry’s blood dripped face with a mighty, powerful slap, the many jeweled rings of his knuckles digging sharply into Harry’s cheeks, knocking Harry down momentarily. Long enough though, for Simon to attempt to grasp the GLOCK held weakly in Harry’s hand. Simon covers Harry’s hand around the weapon with his own, struggling to get a solid hold on it.

Harry sits up, screaming as twists Simon’s fingers around the gun with angry force, trying to shake the weapon from Simon’s grip. But he continues to hold on tightly, relentlessly slinking his index finger over Harry’s on the trigger. Harry starts to stand to his feet, hand still laced around the gun as he roughly knees Simon in the gut. On impact Simon squeezes harder, putting more pressure on Harry’s finger over the trigger causing the mechanism to fire twice, bullets piercing the ceiling.

Fighting against each other in a power struggle for dominance over the weapon, Harry and Simon pull and push the gun around in their hands, trying to aim it at each other’s bodies. All the while, Simon continues his verbal assault against Harry, profane filth leaking from his sick bloody lips.

“You’re a fucking disgrace. I bet your own parents didn’t even want you!” Simon yells cold-bloodedly. “You came into the world with nothing! As nothing! And you will leave just the same! As nothing! With nothing and no one to call your own!”

Harry falters marginally, the hurtful words having an effect on him, the slight window just enough for Simon to twist Harry’s arm behind his back, harshly squeezing Harry’s fingers until the gun drops weakly to the ground. Harry snaps back to it, kicking the weapon across the room with his foot, using the strong force of his muscular body to flip Simon over on his back.  

Harry pounces on Simon, both of them rolling around on the floor as they each struggle to get the upper hand, throwing wild punches in between angry shouts, rough blows over snide remarks. Harry reaches down to dig his thumb into the bullet wound he inflicted on Simon’s knee earlier, causing him to gasp in agony, writhing under Harry as Harry simply presses harder and harder against the abrasion.

As Simon screams, Harry jumps up suddenly, attempting to run, but mostly crawling on all fours desperately to get his disregarded gun, kicked across the office space. Simon forces himself to recover from the sharp pain in his leg, charging threateningly after Harry across the room with full force. Harry grabs weapon just in the nick of time, spinning his position from laying on his stomach to his back to the floor. Not bothering to perfect his aim in the short span of time, Harry fires the gun, milliseconds before Simon aggressively sprang on him. Simon gasps as the bullet punctures his abdomen, clutching his body and crumbling weakly to the floor adjacent to Harry.

Harry lies motionless on the ground, still holding the gun in the air, firmly pointed where Simon once loomed over him moments ago. He inhales heavily, desperately trying to calm his spiked breathing and steady his adrenaline-spiked heart rate.

After several moments, Harry sits up, wiping the red stains on his face with the sleeve of his now soiled, tailored shirt. He slides a hair tie from his wrist and messily fastens his wild hair away from his face, before standing to his wobbly feet.

Harry slowly strides across the room to the open safe, taking out the black external hard drive encrypted with all the perfidious secrets this company has to hide. Using Simon’s desktop, Harry sets about uploading a copy of the files to The Agency's mainframe as Niall instructed, ensuring that a backup is made should anything happen to the physical copy.  

“Harry?” 

At the sound of his name being unexpectedly called, Harry reflexively grabs hold of the gun he dropped on the desk next him, lifting his hand swiftly and pointing the end to Zayn’s head in an instant, weapon cocked and ready to go if need be.

Zayn raises his hands in compliant surrender, stopping in his tracks, a few paces away from the desk Harry is standing behind. “I'm not here to hurt you, Harry. I swear, I’m not.”

Harry stares at Zayn from the behind the solid wood, firearm stiffly extended with his arm, refusing to take his eyes off of him for a single second, but also refusing to utter a single word.

“H, I came to talk to you…” Zayn starts timidly, tone thoughtful. “To well…um…explain and…apologize and-” 

“Fuck off, Zayn.” Harry scoffs harshly, lowering his arm and going back to uploading the mass amount of files from the hard drive. “I don’t want your apology.”

“But you deserve it.” Zayn tries again, stepping slightly closer. “You may not want it, but you deserve an explanation from me. I owe it to you. Actually, I owe you so much more…but…um…that’s why I came here.”

Harry continues to ignore Zayn, busying himself with the current task at hand, not willing to be distracted by Zayn’s useless talk.

“Look Harry, if I wanted to hurt you any more than I would have told Simon who you really were when I first found out…And then…who knows what would have happened to you.” Zayn admits. “But instead, I lied to him to get him here so that you could do what you had to do.”

Harry pauses his movements in consideration, lifting his head from the screen before him and deeply furrowing his brow as he eyes Zayn. “So…you set up this meeting for me to confront Simon face to face, knowing that I will find all the incriminating files against Blackstone and expose you and your company for all the shit its done…and all you want is to apologize to me?”

“Yes.” Zayn nods his head earnestly. 

“And you realize that primarily your name among others is rooted at the center of all this.” Harry stands up straight from being hunched over the desk. “That there is no way you can escape a prosecution. That you’ll eventually spend upwards of twenty years in prison once convicted?”

“Yes.” Zayn nods again.

“Your life as you know it will end.” Harry emphasizes again, bewildered by Zayn’s essentially blasé attitude towards his future condemnation. “It’ll all be over.”

“Yes. I know, I fully understand what will happen to me and I have accepted it.” Zayn announces bravely. “I’m turning myself in.”

Harry gapes at Zayn in confusion, eyes squinted in question. “Why Zayn?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.” Zayn confesses, raking both of his hands through his dark hair anxiously. “Because I should have put a stop to this in the beginning…and I ran from it. I hid behind a façade, and I took the easy way out. I knew all the shit was happening with Simon and my father and you…but I remained powerless to stop it.”

“What do you mean?” Harry questions, gun still slack in his hand as he steps from behind the solid desk. He stands before Zayn, eyeing him carefully, the two of them positioned only steps away from each other.

Zayn sighs heavily, scrubbing his palms over his face. “Uh…it really all goes back to the very beginning, doesn’t it? My relationship with my father was…well…you already know about all of that H, you were there for it. You helped me through it all back then. You know how much I wanted his approval. You know how much I wanted him to accept me and just…I don’t know?” Zayn shrugs dejectedly, casting his gaze to the floor. “Embrace me… _love_ me.”

“I’d talk to you about it all the time for hours on end and you would always insist on telling me that my father did love me, and he was only hard on me because he wanted me to be great, he wanted me to be better than he was.” Zayn scratches at the back of his neck, expression appearing clouded. “And…I…I didn’t know how to be better than him because to me, he was the greatest man I ever knew. He was so…accomplished and successful and I couldn’t be him. I could never fill his shoes. So I was scared…I’ve always been scared to make a wrong move, scared to take a chance. All my life I’ve just been… _scared_.”

Harry knows what it’s like to be scared, he knows it all too well.

“And the thing is…my father died thinking I was becoming a good man, that I was becoming the brave leader he wanted me to be, that I was becoming _him_. But really…” Zayn fiddles his hands together as if unsettled with himself. “Really, I was no leader, I was still a scared boy. A coward. Really, I was the opposite of a leader, I was a slave. A slave to myself, to the pressures against me…” Zayn’s voice dies down again sorrowfully as he shakes his head. “A slave to Simon.”

Harry furrows his brow at that, inclining his head in consideration, but altogether remaining wordless.

“Do you know what happened to my father, Harry?” Zayn asks quietly, eyes deeply expressive.

“No.” Harry answers, never taking his inquisitive eyes off of Zayn.

“Simon killed him.” Zayn admits bitterly, expression hard and distant. “Simon fucking murdered my father.”

Harry’s frown deepens, although he isn’t really surprised by that news. Disturbed definitely, but not surprised. He had wondered about Zayn’s father, wondered about how the whole dynamic between them ended.

“He was figuring it out. My father was realizing that not everything was as it seemed within his own company. Especially after what happened with you and all the embezzlement allegations…he didn’t believe it, he couldn’t. You were like another son to him and he refused to just accept it, he refused to think badly of you.” Zayn explains. “And then you _died_ and it all became so much worse, it became real. We were all so heartbroken and distraught, the heavy air in the house was truly unbearable.”

Harry finds himself deeply saddened by that, seeing as though his own family died, Zayn’s family was essentially his family. They loved Harry just as much as he loved them. And the thought of them mourning his unjustified death only serves to genuinely upset his spirit further.

“I hated it so much, it was like I was suffocating, drowning in my own shame. I felt so guilty and responsible, everything just… _hurt_ and I couldn’t take it anymore so…I ended up confessing what I did to my father.” Zayn admits quietly. “I told him how Simon manipulated me into framing you and how I made such a terrible mistake and I remember that I couldn’t stop crying and shaking as I told him everything.”

“And…of course my father was fucking furious and he told me I should have come to him right away…before it all got so messy.” Zayn confesses, voice weak and wavering.  “He didn’t want to believe me, he didn’t want to believe that he put his trust in corrupt people, that his inner circle had been working against him this whole time. But he said he would take care of it, and get to to the bottom of it all…but then it's like the next thing I knew…he was…dead.”

“At first, when he died…I didn’t know…I honestly didn’t know what to make of it all. Everything happened so fast…he was just… _gone_ and we were told that he died of ‘natural causes and stress’.” Zayn frowns, obviously in deep thought as he thinks back on the past. “And then suddenly, Simon became owner of Blackstone and I was so fucking confused because…why wouldn’t my father leave his company to me? His only son? Was I that much of a disappointment to him, that he would no longer trust me with his legacy? I thought that maybe my father really did hate me after all and it wasn’t an exaggeration that I made up in my head.”

Zayn voice trembles the more he talks, emotion beginning to have an effect on him. “But then I found his original will, I found out that he _was_ going to leave it to me, that he didn’t hate me, that he did have some faith left in me after all., even though I disappointed him, he somehow still believed in me. And Simon fucked it all up…he took him away from me and I didn’t even get to tell him goodbye.”

Zayn inhales a mighty breath, looking up at the ceiling momentarily before exhaling deeply. “My father trusted Simon with everything, with his whole life, nothing was out of his reach. And in return for his trust and devoted reliance, Simon murdered him and swindled him out of his own company, setting it all up to look like an innocent and untimely heart attack. When in actuality Simon fucking duped my father into signing the rights of Blackstone over to him right before he killed him.”

“And what’s worse is that when I later found out about what Simon did, I didn’t even do anything about it.” Zayn confesses, sounding remorseful as he stares at the ground. “I allowed myself to continue on as a helpless pawn in his schemes, I allowed Simon to once again force me into submission. I kept on working under Simon’s reign, and I kept on helping him further corrupt this company, further shit on my father’s legacy. I just sat back and took it all as it was dealt to me.”

Zayn lifts his head from the floor, unshed tears lining his eyes as he gazes at Harry regretfully. “But I don’t want to take it anymore. I don’t want to just let things pass by as I do nothing to change them.”

“Simon is a horrible man, a violent murderer, a conniving thief, and a psychopath. All in the name of selfish greed, he has committed innumerous crimes and repeatedly tainted not only my father’s name, but his company. A company he built from the ground up and I can't allow his name to be soiled anymore without exposing the evil man behind it. Too many people have been wronged by him and it has to be stopped. I don’t want to go down as being of the same horrid greedy nature as Simon. I want to go down as an honest man who my father would have been proud of, the leader he desperately wanted me to be.” Zayn states, more and more tears lining the rims of his red eyes without falling. “I’ve been weak all my life, I’ve always slipped by and taken the easy way out and I’ve done some really fucked up things but…I can’t live with myself anymore. I need to do something good, I need to make this right.”

“I can’t justify what happened to you, H.” Zayn concedes forlornly, shaking his head. “I can’t stand here and tell you that I was right in what I did, that I was blameless and irreproachable in my actions. Because I wasn’t. I chose to go behind your back, I chose to put all the blame on you. I decided to essentially ruin your entire life to prolong mine.”

“And…yes, I guess…I can attribute a lot of this to Simon, I can say that he forced me to do everything, that he was the master puppeteer behind it all, or that I was just a dumb jealous kid who didn’t know any better, but in the end, after it’s all said and done…it all still falls on me. I still did it. I still betrayed you. I still stole from you, robbed you of your life. I still fucked up…it was me.” Zayn’s expression breaks, the tears that have been brimming at his eyes, finally spill over. “Shit…it was _me_.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, rather he doesn’t know what to say to anything Zayn has admitted, simply watching on as caged emotion breaks free from Zayn’s spirit, his shoulders shuddering as ugly tears pour from his eyes.

“Harry, I…fuck…you’ve been through so much shit. God, my heart _aches_ for you. Thinking about what you must have lived through, what you were forced to endure…fucking terrifies me…and I…I know it’s all my fault.” Zayn cries distraughtly, body trembling. “And it’s like my list of crimes against you is never ceasing and tragically infinite. My selfishness and cowardly mindset destroyed your life, destroyed you, even. Nothing I can say to you will fix that, nothing I can do will change the grievances of the past. I shouldn’t have made my problems your problems, that was so fucking selfish of me.”

“We have so much history, H. All of my earliest memories start and end with you.” Zayn swipes at his eyes repeatedly, sniffling as he tries to reign over his emotions. “And I almost feel like I’m not entitled to those memories anymore. Like I have no place in remembering your corny jokes or your cheeky smile or that contagious laugh of yours…I loved that laugh. Or how sweet and considerate you were...” Zayn’s voice breaks with more unresolved feeling. “You were always there for me, even when I didn’t ask you to be, even when I didn’t deserve it. You were my first and closest friend. And I just…I don’t know, Harry…I remember when it wasn’t always like this, when things were…different between us.”

Harry feels frozen, stagnant in time. Zayn was there for so many firsts, so many early memories gravitate around him, around _them_. Harry can’t get his body to respond, instead he stands motionless, listening to Zayn as though his life depends on it.

“Do you remember when we were about fourteen or so and we decided it was time that we finally became ‘men’?” Zayn asks randomly, carding a hand through his hair as his tears subside. “We snuck out of my parent’s house in the middle of the night and ran away together. And we spent an entire weekend fending for ourselves, just the two of us. Or what we _thought_ was fending for ourselves.” He amends, tilting his head fondly. “Really, we had my mother’s credit card.”

“We rode the train all the way to the city and then somehow we got really, really lost, remember? But we refused to ask for any help because we were ‘men’ and _real_ men figure shit out themselves.” Zayn smiles reminiscently, staring at his feet. “God, we were so fucking young. What were we even thinking?”

Harry’s eyes soften at the memory, still standing stationary with his gun dangling limply from his hand.

“I can’t remember exactly how we did it at that age, but somehow we got our hands on beer and shared our first official drink together.” Zayn continues thoughtfully, a small smile on the corner of his lips. “And of course, we got piss drunk really easily and then we spent the entire night drunkenly wandering the streets of London doing a shitload of stupid things. Really fucking stupid things.”

Zayn smiles wider, gazing up at the ceiling as he remembers. “Like…didn’t we hotwire a random car? That we couldn’t even drive! How the fuck did we manage that? And then you dared me to steal it…and I _actually_ did! We drove around the city in the dead of night, parading around as ‘men’, in a stolen, hotwired car. But not only did we fucking steal a car, we stole it drunk _and_ underage in every way. How many offenses is that? I’m pretty sure my parents would have killed us if they found out what we actually did that weekend.” Zayn laughs, shaking his head. “But in our defense, we did return the car. You even wrote an apology note on a napkin and stuck it on the windshield.”

Harry fiddles with his fingers, fighting himself internally, but still repeatedly biting his tongue.

“What other stupid things did we do that weekend?” Zayn ponders, a thoughtful smile on his lips, seeming to welcome the distraction and comfort of old memories. “Oh! We went skinny dipping in a public fountain and also once again managed not to get arrested. Pretty impressive, I think.”

“I shaved my head...” Harry adds quietly, gaze locked on the wood floor beneath his feet, finally choosing to speak up after remaining quiet for so long, having hardly uttered a word since Zayn started talking.

“And you shaved your head, that’s right! You did!” Zayn chuckles softly, gazing at Harry almost in awe that he not only spoke up, but actually added to the conversation positively. “That was absolutely insane!”

“It was supposed to be an act of manhood.” Harry defends with a minor smile, meeting Zayn’s expressive eyes. “I was going for masculine…maybe a bit edgy.”

“It only served to prove how big your head actually was.”  Zayn teases, gesturing lightly to Harry’s head. “Or…is.”

Harry cracks a sincere dimpled grin, biting his lip in response to Zayn’s lighthearted joke. Somehow it feels very familiar, not forced, or fake, but almost heartwarming, almost welcome. Harry is reminded of the lifelong relationship he had with Zayn, the profound bond they once shared.  

“That was such a fun weekend. Just…you and me…No one to tell us what to do or who to be. Nothing to complicate things. It was just… _us_.” Zayn utters faintly, almost afraid to get his true thoughts out.  “I…I miss that. I miss how close we were, the bond we had…and I…”

Zayn’s soft voice trails off as he looks upon Harry contemplatively in charged silence. Harry stares back, vulnerable body slack and virtually in a daze as he reflects on sincerity and validity of Zayn’s words.

“ _H_ …” Zayn breathes out heavily in the still room, gazing openly at Harry with deeply saddened eyes. “I don’t know what to say...I know we aren’t those boys anymore. How can we be after all of this? And I know things between us will never be the same but I…I just…I missed _you_. I honestly did…and I truly am genuinely sorry and I just wa—Harry!” Zayn shrieks abruptly, interrupting himself. His eyes widen suddenly as he looks over Harry’s shoulder in instant alarm, unease twisting his features rapidly.

Harry’s preoccupied mind doesn’t even register what is going on around him, he hears shouting, another panicked bark of his name. He feels a steady protective push at his side, then recognizes the distinct sound of two succinct gun shots ringing in the air.

Harry stumbles around, trying to maintain balance after just being obliviously shoved aside. As he rights himself, Harry sees Simon, sitting up on his knees, one hand clutching the gun shot wound Harry inflicted on his gut earlier, the other pointing a recently fired pistol. Harry follows the trajectory of the barrel to himself, but finds his body completely unharmed, looking then to his immediate left.

Zayn.

Paling rapidly, eyes painfully wide, Zayn slowly collapses to his weak knees, jaw slack. Harry can only stand paralyzed, helplessly watching the gradual trickle of fresh blood leak from just south of Zayn’s rib cage, dripping in bright spurts to the wood floor beneath him.

Harry immediately snaps out of it, lifting the gun in his hand and firing madly at Simon, bullet after bullet, emptying his entire magazine into his chest. Harry shoots until he is comfortingly assured Simon is finally dead, that all signs of wretched life have left his malevolent corpse. Harry ceremoniously drops the empty weapon from his suddenly slack grip, attention focusing again on the man who just bravely took two bullets for him, who just valiantly offered his life in exchange for Harry’s.

“Zayn!” Harry rushes to Zayn’s crumpled figure curled up and quivering on the wooden floor, eyes rapidly running over his body, assessing the severity of his wounds.

“Fuck. H-Harry I’m…I’m s-sorry, I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry.” Zayn winces, pained tears tingling at his eyes as he repeats himself over and over again, shaking his head slowly as his face creases with remorse. “I’m sorry. I’m s-so sorry.”

“No Z. Shhh.” Harry hushes gently, wrapping his arms around Zayn’s pierced body. “Shhh, it’s ok.”

“I w-wronged you. I wronged y-you in ways I’ll never c-completely know or even truly understand a-and…I’m so f-fucking sorry.” Zayn brokenly apologizes again, breathing heavily as saltwater continues to pour from his aggrieved eyes. “I was…I was so...c-caught up…s-so jealous…so s-stupid…”

“Don’t speak Zayn, you’re going to be ok.” Harry whispers, looking down frantically at Zayn’s trembling form. He presses heavily against the bullet wounds, trying to slow the flow of ever-running blood. “You’re going to be ok.”

Zayn shakes his head again and coughs violently, blood spilling from the side of his lips. “I’m d-done, H. It’s o-over for me, I d-deserve to die anyway…I do, really…I d-do.”

“No...” Harry shakes his head frenziedly, pressing even harder over Zayn’s wounds. He is losing so much blood, despite the strong pressure of Harry’s large hands, the dark puddle surrounding them grows vaster by the second.

“It’s b-better me than y-you.” Zayn whimpers tragically, eyes glistening. “He w-wouldn’t survive losing y-you twice.”

Harry continues shaking his head wildly, trying his best to utilize the weight of his hands as a barricade, but it seems to be to no avail. Zayn’s frame shivers underneath Harry’s discolored palms, blood coating his skin.

“L-Listen, H.” Zayn sputters, placing a weak hand on Harry’s chest, meeting his eyes. “You were m-my brother, no m-matter what anyone said about y-your true heritage…you a-are and and always w-will be my b-brother, my b-blood. And I know you don’t b-believe it, but I did love you…I _do_ l-love you. But b-back then, I loved you as m-much as my naïve adolescent mind knew h-how. That wasn’t e-enough, I know…I k-know…”

“Zayn…I…”

“I’ve g-grown a lot over the years and I k-know what I did was so horribly w-wrong and if I could I would take it b-back, if I could change the childish and immature m-mistakes of my youth I would. I s-swear I would.” Zayn cries, chest staggering aggressively as he struggles to intake oxygen. “The guilt I’ve c-carried inside cannot even compare to the s-suffering you’ve been through, it can’t compare to all the time y-you lost, all the life sucked from you. I w-went about it all wrong, e-everything I did was oh so wrong. And I…I wish I was s-stronger, I w-wish I had the strength to do the r-right thing all those years ago, not t-take the easy way o-out... and I hate that I w-wasn’t. I’ve always h-hated myself for that and I k-know that you hate me-”

“No, but I-”

“I _know_ you hate m-me.” Zayn repeats again, slowly shaking his head to silence Harry. “And I k-know you’ll never forgive me f-for what I’ve d-done, for the pain of caused you and I don’t e-expect you to, I could never a-ask that of you b-but just…promise me.”

“What?” Harry breathes in hopeless confusion.

“Promise m-me you’ll take c-care of him. Promise me you’ll tell h-him how sorry I am and that I l-love him. Promise m-me that you’ll make him h-happy. He never…he n-never deserved this…” Zayn wheezes miserably. “Y-you never d-deserved this…”

“Promise you’ll l-live your life, make up for a-all the time I’ve stolen from you. Live a long and happy life, free of b-bitterness and hatred, replace it w-with love. Love each other as you r-rightful should have. He was always y-yours, Harry. He never s-stopped loving you. Not for a single moment.” Zayn admits honestly. “Promise me you’ll let him love you.”

Harry applies more pressure to Zayn’s leaking body, trying with all he has to counteract the ever-flowing crimson river. Zayn pulls one of Harry’s bloodstained hands from his body, holding onto it as he expressively meets Harry’s frenetic eyes.

“P-Promise me, H...” Zayn lets out in rasped breath, holding Harry’s red sullied hand close.

Harry pauses, searching Zayn’s amber eyes. His face softens as he uncovers all the sincerity in Zayn’s gaze, the guilt, the remorse and self-reproach. The Zayn in his arms is heartfelt, genuine and open, resembling the young boy he once called his best friend. Harry sees a level of fright in Zayn’s honest stare, a bit of terror and uncertainty as he slowly knocks on death’s door, the shadow of fatality growing imminent.

He has felt many things towards Zayn over the years, many shades have tinted his view, many emotions have waved over his perception. But right now, gazing into Zayn’s swiftly fading eyes, Harry doesn’t feel the binding hatred, he doesn’t feel the tenacious loathing, instead a pacifistic clemency wields over him, melancholic and sorrowfully gentle.

Harry closes his eyes, rims brimming with unshed tears as he nods softly, squeezing Zayn’s feeble hand tightly with his own. As if breaking a dam, the brimming hot tears stream from Harry’s eyes, stinging against the skin of his cheeks in searing rivers.

“ _Promise_.” Harry whispers breathlessly, using his other hand to embrace Zayn’s face gently, streaking red across his temple.

Zayn rests his head against Harry’s hand cradling his face, holding his gaze with Harry for a few more drawn out moments. Then Zayn’s lashes flutter closed, as if Harry’s words gave him the last bit of peace he needed to finally let go. Zayn’s body volts several times, sputtering as his last breath slowly leaves his still body.

Harry holds Zayn’s head in his lap, stroking his hair gently. A tarn of crimson surrounding their bodies. He caresses Zayn’s tranquil face softly, holding his brother close in his arms. Harry leans down and presses a tender farewell kiss to the crest of Zayn’s dark hair, closing his watery eyes somberly as he rests his cheek tearfully against Zayn’s head, rocking his limp body quietly.

“Goodbye, Z.”

 

* * *

 

_“The friends we have lost do not repose under the ground - they are buried deep in our hearts. It has been thus ordained that they may always accompany us – forevermore.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_


	8. Act VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis' POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it's the end of the line...the Final Act. Thank you to all of you who have read, i treasure all of your feedback and lovely comments :) I hope you enjoy this final piece.
> 
> ***UPDATE*** I wrote a bonus scene the accompanies this last act, it would be placed right in the beginning of it. You don't have to read it to understand, but it does add more context and background between Harry and Louis. You can read it [here](http://avocadolouie.tumblr.com/post/158862869950/all-i-wish-not-to-remember-by-thealmightyavocado).

** Act VIII **

 

_“Often we pass beside happiness without seeing it, without looking at it, or even if we have seen and looked at it, without recognizing it._ _We are always in a hurry to be happy...for when we have suffered a long time, we have great difficulty in believing in good fortune.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_

* * *

Loss is a very strange thing, a confusing concept to grasp, almost impossible to comprehend. For in the depths of loss, in the complexities of mourning, a portal is opened, a way to truly reflect on what’s hidden deep down inside. Loss pries open the closed off crevices of the soul and airs out the ugly shit that’s often too daunting to confront, too uncomfortable to bear, exposing everything at face value, whether good or bad.

Loss is a very strange thing.

Louis feels as though his life is defined by loss. Or more so by loss immediately followed by compensated, unjust and painful gain. A tipping scale, teetering back and forth, oscillating sides, never equal, never evenhanded.

Louis unfortunately lost Harry only to surprisingly gain Zayn. Then he gained Harry only to lose him again for Zayn. And now he has lost Zayn entirely and gained Harry completely. Gain can never come without loss, and loss is the aftershock of gain.

Yet sometimes Louis feels as though he would rather only lose out on life, spare everyone this heartache, undo it all, bear all the weight of loss himself, so that everyone else could gain. No matter what unfolds, there is always an unhappy party, someone who draws the short end of the stick. And even though on the outside it appears to never be Louis on the losing end, in truth, it _always_ is.

In every version of his life Louis loses. Something is lost, always lost. Unfairly taken from him, cruelly stripped from his arms. No matter how hard he tries, no matter what variables shift, something is _always_ lost. The idealistic concept of somehow achieving balance, of having the best of both worlds, is a sick and diluted myth, a twisted fantasy which only purpose is to provide false comfort to those faced with unwanted loss.

Yes, loss is a very strange thing.

Is it possible for one soul to be simultaneously tied to two separate souls? Is it possible to love two people, to long for two lives, to yearn for two opposing ideals of happiness? Maybe, Louis thinks. But through true introspection and allowing complete honesty and openness to self, it becomes apparent that in reality it always comes down to _one_. One side always has the upper hand, the stronger pull, the greater magnetism. It’s simply a matter of physics, a verifiable fact.

Louis was always linked to Harry, desperately bound to him in everyway imaginable, seeming to surpass the lengths of even soulmates at times.

Even when Louis was undeniably Zayn’s, married to him, dedicated to him, he was still Harry’s, always _Harry’s_. Underneath Louis’ platinum band, the symbol of their union, the physical representation of his marriage to Zayn, was Harry. Not even the ugly presence of death brutally slapping Louis across the face, could deter his profound devotion to Harry. He loved him unconditionally regardless, whether physically with him or not, mind always wandering to him daily, despite Zayn’s unwavering affections. 

Louis never really let Harry go. Everything else moved forward, the clocks kept spinning, the seasons kept changing, the world kept turning unbothered on its axis, but Louis remained still. Never budging, never healing, never growing, stagnant and hell-bent on never letting go.

Why Louis could never escape the life altering effect Harry left behind, was beyond his understanding. Louis could never run from it, could never truly be free. No matter where he went or what he did, how he tried or how he wished, his feelings for Harry never left him, never faded nor waned away into the abyss. Louis would smother and stifle them, swallow his emotions, burn his memories, singe the feelings, only to find that they were all still there, still intact in his mind, no further damage could be done to erase them. Louis will carry Harry with him forever, whether he wants to or not.

And he can never be accused of not trying. Louis can never be accused of not trying every single day to be better for Zayn, to love Zayn harder, to fight and deny himself and pledge his entire being to his husband. But despite his unceasing labors, Zayn never had one hundred percent of Louis’ heart because Louis didn’t have one hundred percent to give. He gave that to Harry long ago. And what he gave to Zayn was the shattered unrecognizable remnants, the broken shambles, and tragic residues of what was left of his battered soul. Louis always felt that it was so unfair to Zayn, that Zayn deserved so much more out of his spouse. But what could he do? How could Louis’ give Zayn something he no longer had, something fated to another?

And he knew, Zayn _knew_.

Louis truly found out that Zayn knew the night that Harry let him go. The night he went back home. The night he went back to Zayn. Which also happened to be the night he last saw his husband before he died.

“I won't stop you.” Zayn uttered at the ceiling, not lifting his head from his pillow as Louis stumbled into their bedroom with bloodshot, tear ridden eyes.

“What?” Louis questioned, heavily lifting his head at the sound of words being uttered towards him. Louis was so drained after leaving Harry’s, after watching Harry leave him, watching Harry slip from his grasp for the second time. He felt numb and greatly disoriented.

“I won't stop you from choosing Harry.” Zayn clarified softly, sitting up from the king sized bed slowly. His hair was a tousled mess and his nose was inflamed and stuffy. His eyes were bloodshot and deeply distraught, creased lines from a pillowcase imprinted onto his cheeks as if he had spent the entire day crying in bed.

“He left me, Zayn.” Louis sighed weakly, sinking his heavy body down in a lush lounge chair across from the bed. “He fucking _left_ me.”

“Yeah…I know...” Zayn acknowledged, voice low, head bowed against his lap as he held his face in his hands. “But that doesn't mean you won't go after him.”

Louis remained quiet for several moments, hunched over his knees in the lounge chair. He felt like shit, not one single component of his weathered body felt even minimally ok. Moving, breathing, talking…all of it just felt pointless. “How did you know I was with him?”

“Where else would you possibly go?” Zayn huffed depreciatingly, lifting his head to Louis. He let out a dark abrupt chuckle as if it was the most obvious thing in this world. “It was always him; he was always home to you. Even when he wasn’t here. He was it.”

“Zayn…”

“He was Louis. You always loved Harry with everything you had and I guess that's what I get for trying to steal you away from him. For trying to own something that never belonged to me.” Zayn said, twisting his wedding band around his ring finger in slow meticulous motions. “It’s really not surprising that you went to him…or that you slept with him.”

Louis didn’t answer, just simply stared back at Zayn with tired, almost unseeing eyes, the obvious truth hardly hidden in his expression.

“I’m right, aren’t I? You fucked.” Zayn stated as a matter of fact, no room for a denial or contradiction. “I’m not mad about it, I get it.”

Louis continued to unblinkingly stare at Zayn, remaining completely silent until suddenly he stood to his feet, harshly scrubbing his hands over his raw face and turning away from Zayn. “I can’t deal with this, I can’t deal with this right now.”

“You can’t keep running away from this, Louis. You can’t-”

“I’ll do whatever I fucking want!” Louis interrupted suddenly, spinning on his heel to face Zayn again. “How dare you tell me what to do Zayn! How fucking dare you! You broke my heart! You broke _me_! You don’t get to tell me anything right now!”

Zayn stood to his feet, looking as though he just wanted to hold Louis in his arms, as if all he ever wanted to do was lose himself in the comfort of Louis’ embrace. “Louis, I know and I’m so sorry. I just-”

“Are you!?” Louis shouted, accusation laden in his boisterous tone. “Are you sorry!? I don’t even know who the fuck you are, Zayn!”

“It’s me babe, it’s me.” Zayn said softly, brokenly, head tilted in deep sadness. Saltwater began to reform around the rims of his eyes, threatening to fall. “The man that desperately loves you, the man you married. It’s _me_. And I really am sorry…Lou…I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that! You keep saying how fucking sorry you are, but it doesn’t change anything! It doesn’t help the situation and it doesn’t make it better!” Louis yelled, tears forming behind his own eyes. “It doesn’t even have any meaning anymore!”

“I don’t know what else to tell you!” Zayn cried, collapsing back down against the edge of the bed hopelessly. He covered his face with his hands as he wept wretchedly, heavy sobs shaking his entire body.

Louis never liked the sight of his husband crying. Such a rare thing, an anomaly to behold, essentially unnatural in an uncomfortable kind of way and it tugged deeply within Louis’ heart. Zayn was always a tower of strength, his rock in the darkest of times. Seeing him cry was like watching the world end, watching every good and precious thing crash and burn, tumble and collapse. “Please don’t cry, Zayn…”

Zayn dropped his hands from his face, sniffing deeply with his head still bent tragically downwards. “Baby, I just want you to be _happy_ , that’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He uttered in a hauntingly quiet voice, gaze locked on the floor beneath him. “And if you’re not happy with me then I-”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t happy with you.” Louis interjected timidly. Parts of Louis just wanted to run across the room and curl up in Zayn’s lap, comfort him as he attempted to comfort himself. Just curl up together until everything drifted away, until everything quieted, until the crashing and clamoring around them ceased, until the silence was all that was left.   

Zayn lifted his gaze from the ground in question, swiping his eyes. “But…you just said that-”

“Fuck Zayn! I’m not…I mean…dammit!” Louis sighed heavily, tossing his hands up in frustration. “I’m fucking pissed out of my fucking mind at you! I can’t even think straight, I’m a sodding mess! You fucked up! You pulled some serious fucking shit! And I can’t ignore that! I can’t ignore all the pain you’ve caused me and more importantly, Harry! I can’t just brush it all aside and pretend I’m ok because I’m not! I’m not fucking ok, Zayn! I’m broken and bleeding and I’m so fucking confused!”

“And you’re right, I love Harry! I love him! He’s just…he’s _Harry_. He’s the love of my life! I will always love him!” Louis shouted emotionally, the water building at his eyes releases itself, showering down against his ruddy skin in dreadful bursts. “But then I…I don’t know! Even through all my bitter anger and hurt…I just…I still fucking love you too, Zayn! I still love you! And it scares the shit out of me! Because it feels like…” He hesitated, sniffling his rapidly running nose. “I don’t know…maybe you’re the love of my life too.”

“Like I love you so much, Zayn.” Louis confessed, tone weakened and low. “And you were there for me, I relied on you for everything and for so long it’s been just us…you and me in our little marriage bubble…and you mean the world to me, but you broke my heart. You lied to me and betrayed me and now trusting you seems out of place. You really hurt me Zayn.” Soft rivers poured across Louis face, almost distorting his vison. “It hurts…it fucking hurts _so_ much, everywhere at once...”

Louis felt his body start to hyperventilate, his emotions on the rise. “Fuck, and now it’s like I’m supposed to choose between two pieces of my heart, when truly my heart is so broken I can’t recognize what it actually wants. Nothing seems fair, nothing is right. Whatever I do is going to be wrong in some way and I hate it!” Louis yelled, squeezing his eyes shut in pure frustration, attempting to block everything out as he clenched his fists against his sides. “I hate that I can’t make you both happy! I hate how heavy my heart feels!”

Louis paused, swiping at his eyes repeatedly, ribcage heaving mightily and his lungs expanded and decompressed in rapid motions. “Harry let me go. He let me go because of how much he loves me and maybe I should let him go too. Maybe I should finally just let him go.” Louis sniffled brokenly. “I have you…and you love me, but I…I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to lose him again and I’m afraid that makes me selfish.”

“You aren’t selfish.” Zayn finally spoke up, striding closer to his distraught partner. “You aren’t selfish, Lou.”

“Then what am I?!” Louis cried gravely, holding his face in his shaking hands. “What do you call this!? Are my feelings even real!? I’m so confused…I don’t know what’s real anymore!”

“We’re real. This is _real_.” Zayn confirmed, speaking in soft hush tones. “What you feel for me is real. And what you feel for Harry is real. You have a shitload of feelings and it’s confusing…I know…but it’s all real, babe.”

“And I know you hate this, but I hate it too. I hate it all so much.” Zayn sniffled heavily. “I hate that I’ve hurt you like this, I hate that you can’t trust me anymore. I hate what I did to Harry and I hate what it did to you. And I hate that it’s come to this. But…baby, I can’t bring myself to hate all the memories we’ve shared, all the love between us.” Zayn shook his head softly, voice barely at a whisper as he gazed into Louis’ eyes. “I can’t.”

Louis couldn’t seem to tear his misty stare away from his pleading husband before him. Zayn’s words stung like being bitten, and burned like holding a hand to a flame, but Louis couldn’t move his hand from the fire, he couldn’t avoid the sting.

“Louis, you have me, you have my whole heart completely whether you want it or not.” Zayn exhaled, shoulders sagging as if he was slowly deflating, heartfelt words leaking from his pores like an expiring balloon. “And maybe in another life, I could have been the one and only love of your life. But being loved by you…even if it wasn’t all of you, was beautiful while it lasted. You never loved me like you loved him. You couldn’t, I know. And oddly enough...I didn't care? Because having any part of you, no matter how minor, insignificant, or small was better than not having you at all.” 

“I know you were entitled to the truth. And I honestly should have told you what I did from the start and been totally and completely open with you.” Zayn confessed, shaking his head remorsefully. “But Louis, I was so afraid to tell you because I didn’t want to lose you too. I loved Harry…I _loved_ him and although it was my fault, losing him was so hard for me, but I didn’t want to make it all about me because I knew how much you loved him too. I knew that the love you had for him overpowered you. And if you knew what I did to him, not only would you leave me but you’d be hurting that much more. Because you’d be losing both of us at the same time and you’d be completely alone. And…I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“Lou…god, I fucked up…I know. And you can scream and yell at me and curse my name as much as you want, I can take it and I deserve it for hurting you both. And really…I'm not asking you to forgive me just yet…I know that you need time. But I…I just…” Zayn paused, anxiously scratching at the back of his neck. “I want you to know that I have always loved you, truly loved you, with all I have in me and I swear to you that I'm going to make this right. As right as I can make it at this point. That’s why I’ve decided that I'm going to turn myself in.” 

“What?” Louis blurted out, not expecting Zayn to say that at all. Who knows what he was expecting…but it wasn’t _that_.

“You’re right, babe. I can’t keep saying sorry without proving how sorry I really am.” Zayn explained. “I’ve been thinking about this and it’s something I need to do.”

Louis shook his head in bewilderment, mouth slightly ajar, not knowing what to say to that sudden announcement.

“And I don’t expect you to wait for me, Lou.” Zayn continued. “I'm don’t expect forgiveness or even understanding as to why I did what I did. I just don’t want to leave like this. I don’t want to leave with you hating me. I can’t bear the thought of you hating me. I won’t survive it.”

“I don’t…” Louis started quietly, looking up at the ceiling as he bit down on his bottom lip. “I don’t hate you, Zayn.”

Zayn opened his mouth with a question on his lips. A question creased in the deepening grooves of his brow. A question laden in the pupils of his eyes. “You…don’t?”

“I hate what you did and I hate that I can almost understand why you did it and I hate that I’m in this fucking position, but…I don’t hate _you_. I don’t.” Louis reaffirmed, shifting on his two feet. “I can’t forgive you yet, I don’t know if I’ll ever fully forgive you, but I don’t hate you…and I’m…I’m not…” Louis tilted his head as he met Zayn’s eyes again. “I’m not leaving…”

Zayn looked at Louis incredulously, his eyes seeing but altogether not believing. Louis gazed right back, feeling open and raw, trying greatly to hold nothing back in his locked stare. Louis felt naked and exposed somehow, like the ferocity and unwavering vigor in Zayn’s questioning eyes was slowly and meticulously pulling him apart, limb by limb, eating him alive like a hungry flame.

“I’m pissed as fuck, but…you’re my husband and I made you a vow, a promise and…I’m not going to leave you…I’ll stay.” Louis shrugged slightly, tugging at his bottom lip, eyes never leaving Zayn in earnest. “I love you, Zayn.”

Zayn shook his head sadly, letting out a breath that at first sound might be interpreted as relief but in actuality was hopeless despondency. He stepped forward with his head hung, pulling Louis into his arms. Zayn nuzzled his head against Louis’ shoulder, seeming to breathe him in, to memorize him. They held each other close, Louis’ arms clutched around Zayn’s back.

The moment suddenly felt all too heavy, all too final. Like a conclusion come far too early in a chaptered novel, like the credits reeling before the resolution of a film.

“You can’t say it was all a waste though?” Zayn chuckled lightly into Louis’ neck, water caught in his throat. “We had a good run, yeah?”

“Yeah...” Louis murmured softly, reminiscent of happier times between them during their marriage. “We did…but…it’s not over Zayn...I’m not going anywhere.”

Zayn disbelievingly shook his head again and squeezed Louis tighter, holding on for dear, precious life. He seemed simultaneously so unwilling to let go, yet also forcibly pushing away, a confusing contradiction for Louis to grasp. “I love you, Louis. I love you so much.”

Louis felt the cold sensation of Zayn’s loose tears against his exposed skin. “I know.”

“Never forget that, Lou.” Zayn mumbled gravely, closing his eyes tightly against Louis’ shoulder. “Never.”

“Why do I feel like you're saying goodbye to me?” Louis whispered into Zayn’s neck softly, running his hands pacifyingly up and down the length of Zayn’s spine. 

“I love you.” Zayn pulled back slightly and cupped his hands over Louis’ cheeks, staring meaningfully into his deep sea eyes. “I love you.” He repeated again achingly, the new tears that had been brimming under his eyes begin to trickle down quietly against his skin.

Zayn leaned in and pressed their lips together. It was a soft kiss, a tender kiss, but an all together sad kiss. It was neither hopeful nor happy, but rather gravely dim, depressing even.  Like an unwelcome definitive goodbye. It left Louis’ lips throbbing, bitter and raw, his body aching in continued and prolonged confusion, like perpetually falling.

“Zayn?” Louis searched his husband’s eyes, bringing his thumbs up to gently brush the tears from his cheeks. He searched and searched the warm auburn of Zayn’s irises, but there was nothing tangible to be found. There was love, of course. So much painful, agonizing love, sacrificial and long suffering, practically bleeding from every orifice of his face, blistering his skin on its way out, but then… _nothing_. No more words, no more thoughts, no more feelings, nothing. Just a hard, stone wall, shutting Louis completely out of Zayn’s guarded mind.

_“I love you.”_

Maybe he really was saying goodbye. Maybe he was letting go of Louis.  Although Zayn couldn’t have known about his eventual demise, couldn’t have known that he was fated to die, to exchange his life for Harry’s…he _knew_.

Zayn knew.

Zayn knew that Louis would always love Harry no matter what. No matter what Louis said, no matter how hard Louis tried to move past his unwavering connection to his lost love. No matter if his body was determined to stay, Zayn knew Louis’ heart was long gone. Zayn knew that this was _goodbye_.

 

* * *

 

After Zayn’s death, Blackstone was completely ended. The evidence found against the company was enough to shut the entire enterprise down for good. All living, known associates and accomplices were immediately tried and convicted, held accountable for their multitude of crimes, sentenced to decades behind the walls of an unforgiving prison. Blackstone’s copious financial accounts were liquidated, the money used to rightfully compensate all the many people who were so horridly screwed over and swindled by Simon’s conniving misdemeanors.

As his spouse and sole beneficiary, all of Zayn’s wealth and numerous accounts are left to Louis. But Louis doesn’t know what to do with the money, in fact he doesn’t know what to do with any of the extravagant things around him. His house, or rather mansion was far too big before and now it feels like Louis is concurrently drowning and hopelessly stranded inside its confines. The halls are so empty and hallow, the ceilings are too high, too grand. He feels like a prisoner in his own home, trapped and caged.

So he sells it, all of it, wanting nothing more to do with it. Louis sells it all, the mansion, the cars, the decadence, his entire estate. He was never too attached to any of it anyways, never found a home in all the luxury and lavish nature. And now without Zayn in it, to make it even marginally worthwhile, to make it feel like anything resembling a home, it’s all pointless and unnecessary.  

Harry tells Louis to stay with him at his house, urging him not to be alone as he comes to terms with all the rapidly occurring events. Louis needs a moment to process his thoughts, to sit and take in all that has just occurred in a series of abrupt flashes around him.

Finding out that Zayn died was an out of body experience for Louis. The range of emotions that came over him often conflicted, opposing portions of his heart not knowing what to feel, what to express. Of course Louis felt an overpowering sense of grief and mind-numbing sadness over the loss of his husband, but at the same time he can’t shake the profound anger he feels. The deep resentment and animosity harbored stanchly in his grieving heart. And what’s worse and even more confusing is, Louis doesn’t know what he really is angry at.

Is it Zayn? Is it himself? Is it the just the fucked up situation as a whole?

Truthfully, he can’t put the experience into words that would even resemble sense. So to counteract that, Louis ignores it. He ignores everything, pushes it all to the far recesses of his stubborn mind and keeps pressing forward, focusing his efforts on establishing and embracing whatever his life now means.

But…sometimes Louis misses Zayn. Sometimes he curls up against himself and he thinks about the life they had together, draws upon the good times they shared throughout their decade long marriage and he just… _misses_ Zayn. He will always hold on to their memories, hold on to happy thoughts of yesteryears and days gone by.

And somehow Harry understands. Even after all the hardship he has endured, Harry understands that what Louis had with Zayn, what he had with his late husband, is so completely different than what Harry had with Zayn.

So he doesn’t push. Harry never holds it against Louis for bringing Zayn up in conversation from time to time, Harry never condemns Zayn or curses his name when Louis slips into a reminiscent state. Actually, Harry never utters Zayn’s name whatsoever, whether positively or negatively, simply remaining neutral on the sensitive topic all together.

And that, that simple action of mute permission that Harry allows, that pardoning attitude is conveyed because, Louis thinks, Harry truly forgave Zayn, he truly _let go_.

Louis never dares to ask and Harry never offers to say it, but it’s an unsaid tolerance, a silent forgiveness. Harry never told Louis what Zayn said to him before he died, but Louis thinks he doesn’t need to know. He thinks that maybe it should be left alone as their special moment, a final colloquy between fallen brothers.

And although Harry might have forgiven Zayn, might have found a way within himself to let go of all his hate, Louis doesn't know if he is capable of doing the same. He doesn’t know if he is capable of forgiving Zayn or if he ever will.

Yes, of course, Louis admits that he misses Zayn from time to time, and he will always care about him, but then when he looks at Harry, looks at the battle waging behind his weary struggling eyes, as Louis watches how hard he has to fight himself every single day, Louis can't help but have a residual grudge harbored against Zayn. It's like he needs someone to punish in his head, someone to cast the brunt of the blame on.

Louis also admits that it is true that he loved Zayn, he truly loved him with all he had left, that is undeniable. Louis loved his husband and he always will to an extent, but loving Zayn only makes it that much harder for Louis to find it within himself to forgive him, to let go of the animosity he feels growing inside.

Harry reminds Louis daily not to blame himself, not to carry the heavy weight of guilt on his shoulders, so Louis tries not to, honestly he tries. But then, if Louis can’t blame himself, it's like the next person to blame in his head is always Zayn.

Always Zayn.

Louis knows it wasn't all Zayn’s fault either, that he was manipulated and blinded, unfortunately led astray. And he knows that Zayn loved him, he knows that painfully well, so he tries. Louis tries a little more every day to fully let go and forgive Zayn of his transgressions.

But it's so impossibly hard. Especially on the bad days. 

The days when Harry completely closes off from Louis, brooding within himself and not speaking for hours on end, the silence spanning precipitously between them. The days when Harry wakes up in the middle off the night, wildly screaming unconsciously, as nightmares and horrifying terrors plague his mind. There are even days when Louis will find Harry curled up on the floor of the bathtub, water showering over him as his naked body frantically shakes uncontrollably.

And on those days, Louis tries so hard to swallow his anger towards Zayn, his bitterness about the entire ill-fated situation. Louis bites his tongue when he wants to scream out and he calms his twitching body when he wants to violently break everything in his path and instead of doing any more useless damage, Louis focusses on being there for Harry.

Although it hurts him just as much to watch Harry fight the demons consuming him, Louis is always there. Louis sits with Harry through the unbearable silence when Harry refuses to talk and he pulls Harry into his warm, welcoming arms and sooths him in the darkness of the night, whispering softly against his ear, peppering feather-light kisses against his neck and comfortingly stroking his hair as the night tremors leave him. And Louis gets in the cold bathtub fully clothed and sits across from Harry, knee to knee under the heavy cascade above them, squeezing both of Harry’s hands, reminding him that he is there, that he’ll always be there.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Louis whispers softly under the trickling of water from the spouting showerhead. 

Harry remains silent, knees drawn up against himself as his naked body quivers. His drenched elongated curls, fall over his face, sticking to the sides of his cheeks, creating a brunette curtain shrouding his expression entirely.

“Harry?” Louis tries again gently, leaning forward in the wide tub.

Louis can't stand it, he can't stand to see Harry so distraught, so dejected from the world around him, completely removed and hidden deeply within himself. Even though Louis can’t see Harry’s face fully, he knows perfectly well of the desolate empty expression painted across his features, he knows what sad eyes await him under the thick sheath of wet hair.

Louis reaches across the bathtub and draws Harry’s wet hands up, pressing his lips against his skin. He stares at Harry’s juddering form for awhile in the silence, caressing his knuckles soothingly under the shower of water.

“Babe…will you look at me?” Louis pleads quietly, swallowing the lump rapidly forming in his throat as he watches Harry continue to shudder against himself. “Please…”

Harry doesn’t look up, he doesn’t react to Louis’ voice, nor does his body cease to convulse. Louis almost isn’t sure if Harry can even hear him, or if maybe Harry is too far within himself. Whatever dark notions threaten his sanity, whatever horrid flashbacks are looming over his thoughts, whatever cringe worthy conceptions consume his lucidity, Louis can see it eating him alive viciously right before his very eyes. And he hates it. Louis hates it, but he is also powerless to stop it.

Louis squeezes Harry’s slippery fingers with his own, wanting so much to bring Harry back to him, bring him back to reality. To somehow rescue Harry from himself.

“Harry, I love you.” Louis’ earnest voice echoes softly against the fall of droplets, trying so hard to reach Harry, wherever he is, wherever his mind is stranded. “I love you.”

Harry breaks at the sound of Louis’ soft words, face splitting tragically as he starts to cry. His tears mix with the falling water as his frame begins to shake even harder than before, chest heaving in momentous waves.

“Oh baby, come here.” Louis exhales emotionally, pulling Harry’s naked quivering body against his own torso, holding him impossibly close. Harry goes easily into Louis’ arms, wanting to be held, wanting to be comforted.

“L-Louis…” Harry sobs tragically against Louis’ chest, clutching at his completely soaked shirt tightly as he struggles to take in solid consistent breaths.

“Shhh, shhh it's alright, love. It's alright. I'm here.” Louis sooths, pressing his lips to Harry’s head comfortingly. Louis feels the pressure of silent tears prickling at his own eyes and he is suddenly extremely thankful for the shower of water to wash them away.  He doesn’t want Harry to see him cry, not right now, he wants to be strong for Harry, just be there for him. “I'm here. I'm right here. I’m here with you.” Louis repeats over and over again, rocking their bodies back and forth. “I’m here, baby.”

“I feel…l-lost…” Harry cries faintly against Louis, shoulders quaking in erratic bursts as his body hyperventilates. “I’m s-so… _lost_.”

Louis doesn’t even know what to say. What can he say? The amount of trauma that Harry has sustained in his life, the high degree of distress he has absorbed is unimaginable. The world as he knew it was flipped and flopped, twisted and turned, multiple times over, distorting it to a point where anyone would feel lost, feel hopelessly misplaced and despairingly disoriented.

Louis doesn’t know how he copes with it, he doesn’t like to think of the horrid things Harry has experienced, he doesn’t like to think of how Harry got those scars that haunt him so. Louis refuses to think about it, for he will surely throw up. Granted, Louis has been through a lot of turmoil himself, but no where near as gruesome and desolate as Harry. Louis remembers Harry telling him initially that he didn’t know who he truly was anymore, that he felt empty and numb.

And now Harry is trying, he is trying so hard to dig within himself and rediscover who he is. He is trying so hard to really _feel_ again, but it’s hurting him in the process.

“A-And…if I am truly l-lost…then I…” Harry hiccups wretchedly, gasping for breath as his body convulses unnaturally. “How c-can I find myself… I can’t…I can’t find m-myself…I can’t…” Harry blubbers through his chocked sobs, clutching Louis tightly as his body continues to tremble.

“I’ll find you.” Louis promises wholeheartedly, closing his eyes, cheek pressed against the crown of Harry’s head. “I’ll find you, baby. I’m here, ok? I’ve got you. I’ll find you.”

Harry nods wordlessly into Louis’ chest, still sobbing, still shaking. All he can do is grab hold of Louis and hang on for dear life.

As Harry’s tremors begin to subside, Louis eases back in the tub in order to take care of Harry in the only way he can right now. Gently running a soapy washcloth over his limp body, grazing over his countless scars with all the care in the world, shampooing his curls tenderly, making sure he doesn’t miss a spot, all the while whispering the same simple phrase as a vowed intonation.

“I’ll find you…I’ll find you… _I will find you._ ”

 

* * *

 

They travel the world.

Louis is just as lost as Harry is and maybe by exploring the world, by being adrift together in new places, by getting purposely lost, a lost they can control, maybe they can be somehow _found_.

So they travel the world. Harry and Louis travel, just as they always wanted to travel. They may not be in their twenties anymore, life may not have turned out how it was meant to, or gone quite how they wanted, but maybe they can still claim what they were meant to have. Even if in pieces, even if broken, maybe they can reassemble the shattered fragments and find each other again.

Continent to continent they tour, not for the same amount of time as originally planned, but for two years Harry and Louis explore the world together. The further they go and the more lost they get, the more found they feel, getting to know each other and slowly falling in love all over again.

Together they truly hold the world as their oyster, experiencing all the wonders it has to offer firsthand in no particular order, bounding and leaping from destination to destination as they please, making innumerous stops and memories along the way.

In Portugal, they motor bike through the illustrious Serra de Arrábida Canyons, racing across the tremendous valleys and ravines. They base jump from the very top of Angel Falls in Venezuela, soaring through the clouds with pure adrenaline spiking their veins, a valiant rush in their systems.

They take the tourist route in Barcelona, lounging about at local cafés, strolling around the gorgeous city without rush, without rhyme or reason, simply taking their time. Enjoying the company of one another and the bustling thrum of the beautiful city.

In the Mediterranean, they sail at sunset, cruising along the coast of Santorini, Greece, watching the setting horizon as if watching an experienced painter express timeless art; the elegant strokes of warm color swirling across the skyline in majestic, resplendent hues, gloriously imperfect colorful splatters painting the sundown vista.

At sunrise, they surf the seaside of Melbourne, riding the pristine waves and wading in the salty powerful waters. And alongside the New Zealand coastline, they go horse riding, the cool briny air refreshing their faces and calming their spirits.

They go deep-sea diving in Maldives, swimming amongst the ranging aquatic life of the great Indian ocean, before extravagantly dining underwater at Anantara Kiavah.  

After a camelback safari through the sand dunes of Rajasthan, India, they fall asleep under the stars, wrapped in only each others arms and bathed in the un-diminishable glow of the brilliant constellations.

They make it to Thailand just in time for the Chaing Maii Yii Peng Festival of Lights, watching the illumed lanterns light up the sky in breathtaking, indescribable ways, warming the city in dazzling orange tinges.

They dance the night away in New Orleans, adorned by glittered masks, shimmering beads handing from their necks, all throughout the lively, energetic Mardi Gras festivities.  

Hand locked in hand, they ice skate at the Rockefeller Center in New York, laughing uncontrollably as they wobble and teeter against the slick ice, relying on each other for much needed support.  

Their hearts are insatiably enriched as they attend Mozart’s Don Giovanni at The Theatre of the Estates in Prague, the elegant reverence of the classical performance moving them both to tears.

They go wine tasting in the vast orchards of Napa, intoxicated by pressed, fermented grapes, thoroughly enriching their palates while also getting proper drunk and absolutely wasted. Spending simple intimate evenings giggling at each other over the tops of their sloshing wine glasses. 

They make love on the soft pink beaches of the Bahamas, impassioned and beautifully slow; ensuing spending the entire day soaking up the sun and listening to the calming waves lap against the blushing sand.

And when they circle back around to Venice, after traveling for two life changing years, Harry and Louis finally get married. They pledge the remainder of their lives to each other in heartfelt vows along the gorgeous shores of Lido di Venezia, the warm sunset basking their blissful faces in a sun kissed glow.

They promise forever as if it wasn’t already promised before, they promise always, vowing to never be apart from each other again, they promise eternity, whether short lived or everlasting, they promise each other, wholly and truly. As he always did, and always will, Louis keeps the simple weathered twine Harry fastened around his finger, stowing it beneath his new silver wedding band.

Louis thought their destination wedding in Venice was the last and final stop on their extensive adventure together, the last pin on their expansive map before they settle down, but Harry has other ideas, deciding to add a slight detour to the plan.

Harry squeezes Louis’ hand reassuringly, drawing their intertwined hands to his lips, but Louis can’t find the words or strength to respond, staring unseeingly in front of him. as they stand before a cold stone headstone.

“I’ll give you some space, ok?” Harry whispers, choosing then to brush his lips softly against Louis’ cheek, before releasing his hand and starting to turn away. “Take your time.”

Louis nods his head slowly, still staring unblinkingly at the burial plot before him, the erected stone practically sucking the oxygen right out of his lungs. The atmosphere around him suddenly feels so thick and heavy, the charged pressure of the moment building steadily. Louis doesn’t know what to do with himself, what to do with his hands, what to do with his body, what to say. He feels awkward and stupid being here, standing on the grounds of a graveyard.

Like a broken record, Harry has told him time and time again, how Louis needs to do this, how it’ll give him closure or some shit. And Louis knows it’s true, he knows Harry is right, but now that he’s faced with it, now that the dreaded moment is rearing its ugly head in front of Louis’ face, he doesn’t know what to actually do or where to begin. Where does Louis possibly begin?

“Um…hi…Zayn…” Louis starts slowly, eyes still locked on the tombstone of his former husband buried adjacent to his late father.

“God, this is so fucking weird…I don’t know what I’m doing or what to say.” Louis huffs a heavy cautious breath. “Well…that’s not completely true. I know what I need to say…I just…” Louis trails off again, looking down to the bouquet of beautiful flowers held limply in his hand.

“I brought you flowers…” Louis tries again, laying them down on across the marble memorial stone. “Um…they’re your favorite flower, actually. Blue orchids.” Louis smiles softly, suddenly reminiscent as he gazes at the delicate bushel of indigo florets. “I remember…on our fifth anniversary, you had rows and rows of them planted in our garden…all because you said they reminded you of me.”

“‘ _Beautifully bright, and infinitely strong, yet peacefully gentle; my exquisite rare flower, my inamorato, my love, my Louis’_.” Louis recites, thinking back to Zayn’s poetic words. “You had that engraved on the cobblestone path that led to our blue orchids.”

“And you told me how inexplicably rare they are in the world and how you wouldn’t hesitate to pay any price to have them and be completely surrounded by them because it was like being surrounded by _me_ and it was one of the greatest joys you’ve ever known. ‘ _Like drowning in a sea of all-consuming blue waves’_ , you said.” Louis pauses, thinking to himself. “I still don’t know if I completely understood what you meant by that but…”

Louis shrugs, gently digging his foot in the softened ground he’s standing on. How is it that he has run out of words before the words have even left his lips?

“So…Harry and I are moving back to England.” Louis starts up a new topic, purposely avoiding what he actually came to say. “I think it feels good, you know? To be home again. I’ve missed it. You always missed it too, didn’t you? There isn’t anywhere like it, really. Not that California is a bad place to live or anything, it just…it never rains and I kinda always loved the rain. It washes everything away and it all seems so fresh after, so…peaceful...I don’t know.”

Louis continues scuffing up his once shined shoes in the dirt anxiously, scratching at the back of his neck.

“Oh! This might be a bit random but…I finally tried fresh escargot when I was in France and oh my god, you were right! It’s gross! Like so fucking gross! And it’s slimy and so fucking chewy like a stale rubberband, I hated it!” Louis gags, scrunching his face up at the thought.

“Harry liked it though for some wild reason unknown to me. And to be fair, it really seemed like it would be good, cuz it’s a delicacy or whatever, but I swear horse shit tastes better. I should have listened to you.” Louis laughs fondly, eyes crinkling genuinely at the corners. “But I am bit hard headed sometimes…we both know that, probably all too well, in fact. I swear if you saw me choking on that shitty snail dish, you’d just laugh and tease me to no end, I can almost hear your amused, smug bastard giggle in my ear.”

Louis sucks his teeth nervously, the reminiscent smile slowly fading from his face as he deliberates what to say next, concentrating all his attention on a specific blade of grass. It’s unusually long, and oddly greener than the surrounding lawn patches. Interesting.

“Well um…there is a reason for me being here, ok?” Louis starts again, bending down to pluck the shining blade from the soil. “I’m not just here to tell you stupid stories or get stuck on old memories or even bring you flowers...I just…I don’t know…I’ll get to it…eventually.”

Louis shifts on his feet uneasily, biting his lip as he twists the piece of grass between his fingers. Maybe he isn’t ready for this. Maybe it’s too soon. But it’s been two years and if Louis doesn’t do this now, when will he do it? Can he hold on to this for the rest of his life? What kind of life would that be?

“You know I went base jumping.” Louis announces randomly, still casually choking back the real words stuck in his throat, the words fighting so hard to be free from his heavy soul.

“Yeah, it’s fucking sick.” Louis continues, deciding to stick with this topic for now. It’s just easier, somehow. “You’d like it, I think. It’s bloody scary, but oddly thrilling and invigorating at the same time. I think it’s cuz you’re just free falling and all you see are sharp rocks and water roaring beneath you and you get closer and closer and for a moment it feels like you might die. Like you scream ‘fuck me’ and you almost shit yourself cuz it _really_ feels like there is no way you’ll survive this. And an impulsive, consuming rush comes over you…like an urgency?  Or something. Probably adrenaline, I guess…but it’s such a _high_.”

Louis pauses as he thinks back on the experience. “But then…all of a sudden you feel this…overwhelming peace…and tranquility. And you realize that in actuality you will survive this and it’ll all be ok and you’re safe and secure…so then you just feel simultaneously empowered and assured, but also calm…I don’t know...I don’t know…”

Louis’ voice fades out again, ceasing his ramblings, attention turning back to the strip of grass in his grasp, toying with it as a light cool breeze sweeps around him in gentle blows.

“Ugh, fuck!” Louis groans suddenly, tossing his hands up in exasperation and flinging the stray plant to the wind. “Harry was right, I should have written down what I wanted to say, so I’d actually fucking say it! I’m better on paper anyway.” Louis scrubs his hands over his face. “Why is this so fucking hard!?”

“Probably because I’ve been fucking avoiding it for so long.” Louis answers himself resentfully. “Shit…”

“If you were here you’d probably tell me to take my time and just speak my mind as it comes to me. _‘Don’t rush it, Lou’,_ you’d say, ‘ _just breathe through it and it’ll all come out_ ’.” Louis mumbles softly, staring at the fresh cut blades of grass beneath his feet. “So…I’m going to try that, I think...yeah…”

Louis takes a deep breath, wringing his hands together anxiously. He casts his gaze up to the sky, absorbing the calming serenity of the firmament. The sky is dreary and opaque, monotonous and grey, the sun nowhere to be seen. A thick fog obscures the air, mirroring Louis’ own ranging emotions. He feels clouded, he feels like a heavy blinding fog is hovering over his mind, obfuscating his judgment.

“I miss you, Zayn.” Louis admits finally, allowing the first thing his mind thinks of to escape his lips, just letting it flow naturally, uninhibited. “I really do. I miss you, babe.”

“Sometimes I catch myself saying something, an inside joke maybe, or a witty remark, or even a stupid comment that I know you’d get…and I just…I forget that…I forget that you’re gone.” Louis confesses, head hanging weightily. “And I _miss_ you.”

“I’ve just…I’ve been thinking about you…and all the things that happened…and I don’t know I just…I…Shit!” Louis sighs again, growing increasingly more frustrated with himself.

“You know that Harry forgave you? Did you know that?” Louis asks, voice sounding shocked and even a bit bitter. “He just _did_. I don’t know how or when but…he did and I didn’t fucking get it!”

“Forgiving you helped him get better, helped him move on and start to put his life back together…but I just…I couldn’t do it! I couldn’t move on! And I couldn’t forgive you! No matter how hard I tried!” Louis shouts angrily. “And I’ve been so mad at myself and mad at you because I couldn’t wrap my mind around how Harry could have lived through all that fucking shit and still have more fucking scars to count and then still forgive you! Just like that! How does that happen?! Fucking how!? And how could I be more upset than he is!?”

“But I realized that…it wasn’t always you that I was running from. I was also running from myself. From my feelings, from my choices, from my emotions, from me.” Louis confesses, no longer shouting, no longer fighting. “I’m…I’m scared to let go, Zayn…I’m just scared…”

Louis files his fingers through his windblown hair. “Like I can try to ignore it and push everything to the very back of my mind, but it’s been two years since you died and it hasn’t gone away and I…I’ll never move on if I keep doing that, if I keep trying to ignore things, if I keep trying to run from everything I’m afraid of.”

“And I’m not here because it seems like the right thing to do or even because Harry thinks I should or any other bullshit reason…I’m here for _me_.” Louis declares decisively.  “I have to do this for me. I didn’t choose a lot of things that happened in my life and too many things were decided for me but…I’m choosing to do this.”

“It’s taken me so long to get to this point. To even think about talking about this out loud, but…here I am…and…” Louis sighs looking up at the cloudy, bleak sky again and suddenly he just can’t hold it together anymore, suddenly it’s all too much. “God, fuck…”

Louis weakly crouches down against the dewy grass and cries. He releases his mind, his soul, and his heart, not holding back anymore, letting the grief and the anger and the swallowed feelings free. The pent up frustration, the harbored animosity, the engulfed sorrow, all of it. Louis lets it all outflow out of him in loud unabashed cries, pour out through unfaltering sobs, empty out of him like a well run dry.

As his cries slowly subside, Louis closes his eyes, breathing deeply through his runny nostrils several times as he tries to regain a sense of control. Although silent, a new fresh water wave begins to brim along his closed eyes.

“Zayn…I _forgive_ you.” He whispers into the wind as the salty tears brimming at his eyes spill over once more, this time tracking mutely down his cheeks. It feels like the final weight being lifted off his encumbered chest, like laying down an all too heavy burden.

Louis takes in another gasped breath as if truly breathing for the first time in so long. “I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you.” He repeats in succession, almost unable to stop the words from forming at his tongue. It feels so good to finally say it, to cry it, to scream it, to _feel_ it.

“I forgive you for everything you did and everything you didn’t mean to do.” Louis breathes, swiping at his tearstained cheeks. “I don’t want to hold on to this anymore. I don’t want to keep finding blame in you. I don’t want what we had to be tainted by bitterness and ugly resentment. I want to completely let go.”

Louis sniffles, his red nose constantly running as the tears still track down his face. “Zayn, I just want to remember you for what you were to me. I want to remember all the good times we shared. I want to remember how much I loved you, how happy you made me while we were married. I want to remember you for _you._ ”

“You were always so good to me, babe. Always. You were an amazing husband and a good man.” Louis states with conviction. “And I know you messed up and made a horrible mistake, but I also know that you never meant to hurt me, or…Harry. You didn’t mean for all of this to happen and you were a victim too. All you wanted was to do the right thing…you just wanted to make it right.”

“God, you were so brave, Zayn. So bloody brave.” Louis asserts, tone in a state of awe.    “Your father would’ve been so proud of the man you became. He really would have, I know it. You died a hero. A brave hero.”

“I doubted you before, when all this happened, but…I know that you truly loved me with your whole heart, I know that what we had was _real_.” Louis whispers heavily. “And I wish I could have said it sooner…I wish I visited you sooner, and I’m sorry for that. But I want you to know, now rather than never, that I’m not holding anything against you anymore, nothing at all.”

Louis spends several minutes just standing still, completely and utterly motionless, basking in the quietude of it all, allowing the amity to wash over him gently. It’s unlike any other feeling, not something he could have faked or replicated, it’s real and authentic, an invaluable and conclusive step in the healing process.  

“Well...I should probably go, Haz is waiting for me but…it was really nice talking to you again, babe. I’ve missed our long talks. I think I’ll come back and visit you sometime.” Louis presses a kiss to his own palm and then places his hand on the cold stone surface, right over Zayn’s engraved name.

“Bye Zayn.”

 

* * *

 

In the welcome and quite lovely suburbs of Manchester, Harry and Louis finally settle down together.

A quaint, peaceful neighborhood where everyone’s bright, green lawn has a white picket fence and the neighbors all know each other’s names and life stories, all strategically invested in one another. A neighborhood where mini vans are more common than luxury convertibles, and instead of ornate statues and priceless art decorating the lawns, bake sales and lemonade stands frequent the driveways and sidewalks, along with carelessly discarded footballs and bicycles. A neighborhood where backyard patios are used to barbeque on free weekends and holidays aren’t just an excuse to tragically drink and hopelessly party until no longer able to remember, but a chance to come together as a community and truly celebrate and embrace the timeless festivities and traditions.

They settle down in a neighborhood that feels like home. A home they never knew or experienced first hand, but a home they always always wanted.

Although they are well above financially sound, Harry and Louis choose to live far below their means, treasuring a life of complete normalcy and welcomed simplicity.

Louis starts writing again. He signs to a publishing house and is determined to publish his first bestseller, dwelling on his multitude of past experiences as inspiration. He finds joy in writing again, it doesn’t feel forced or uncomfortable. Louis loves to sit on the couch, cup of tea at his side, legs crossed and resting over Harry’s lap as he just lets his mind wander and his fingers dance along the keys. Sometimes it’s like he can’t stop himself from writing, impulsively jotting down little notes on used napkins, and fleeting thoughts on the backs of old receipts. Louis has so much to give, so many sentences to ponder, so many contemplations to explore and now that the creative dam has momentously broken free, he can finally express them.

Aside from picking up a series of extremely random hobbies, Harry decides to start a nonprofit organization to keep himself busy. Niall told him that he was always welcome to come back as an agent but Harry flat out refused. He’d much rather live his life as peacefully as possible, making a difference as best he can through the success of his charitable association. He submerges himself completely in his charity work, finding a sense of fulfillment and ease in it.

A few years ago, Harry was a sad shell of himself, his heart was hard and cold, his body was lifeless and void, but day by day, Louis can see his heart warming again, he can see the missing life and lost brightness gradually returning in his once dead eyes. Harry isn’t completely there yet, hasn’t completely found himself, and doesn’t completely let Louis all the way in yet, but he only continues to get better and better each and every day.

As Harry and Louis build and settle in on their newfound married life together, they find a natural groove, a harmonized pattern of balance. And maybe they shouldn’t so easily understand each other and maybe it should feel more unfamiliar than it actually does due to the gaping span of time, but instead it almost feels like no time has passed at all. Like none of it ever happened. Like they are them again, living the life they were meant to.

“Harold, oh my sweet, precious Harold.” Louis chuckles, sarcastically shaking his head in an overdramatic manner.  “How is it possible for you to be so graceful and elegant, yet still so clumsy all at the same time?”

“Hey hey now, I am very much _not_ clumsy.” Harry huffs from his toppled position on the bedroom floor, tangled up in his own limbs, hair tousled everywhere. “Truly, I am the epitome of elegance and sophistication.”

Louis kneels on the edge of the bed, smiling down at Harry fondly and rolling his eyes. “You’re an oaf. A clumsy oaf.”

“Look you,” Harry blows his wild hair out of his face, squinting his eyes up at Louis and pointing an accusing finger at him from his crippled form on the ground. “I happened to trip over _your_ carelessly disregarded shoe, unsuspectingly, I might add. And this one, minor slip up shouldn’t define me as a person. I’m not clumsy.”

“Your tumbling record speaks otherwise, if my memory serves me correctly.” Louis comments, sly smile on his lips. “Which, in fact, it does.”

“My tumbling days have long left me.” Harry insists, sounding insulted at the thought. “I may have been unstable as a teenager, but I think I’ve grown into my body now and I’m not too fond of the humble tumble.”

“Once a tumbler always a tumbler.” Louis teases mockingly with a smirk, shrugging his shoulders cheekily. “It’s ok, I’ll still love you even though you aren’t the graceful angel I thought you were.”

Harry narrows his eyes at Louis playfully as he stands to his feet again, beginning to make his way to the bathroom. “I’m going to go have that wee now, so until then—Oh, shit!” Harry, not watching where he is walking, trips over the lost pair to Louis’ shoe, falling once again ceremoniously to the floor.

Louis bursts into a fit of uncontrollable giggles, the sight of Harry tripping not once, but two times in the span of five minutes too humorous to ignore.  

Harry rights himself again, holding his head up indignantly as if nothing just happened, making a beeline for the bathroom. A few moments later, he pokes his head from around the door frame, a slight quick to his mouth as he bits his lower lip.

“I’m still not clumsy.” Harry pouts, resting his head along the pane of the doorway. “You know…for the record.”

“Mhmm.” Louis hums, lying back on the bed and chuckling to himself. “Of course not, Haz...never.”

 

* * *

 

The good days become more and more frequent and the bad days soon become few and far between. The horrors of the past becoming a distant notion, a fading, dwindling alternate reality.

Some days so good Louis even dares bring up the concept of _more_. The all too pleasant and heartwarming idea of finally starting a family, weighing heavily on his heart. He feels ready. After everything that happened, after all the setbacks in his life, he feels ready for this. He needs it.

Louis and Zayn were going to have kids, they were going to fill that barren, echoing mansion with a handful of children. But things kept coming up with Blackstone, conflict after conflict, emergency after emergency, and Zayn kept pushing it back. He didn’t want to start a family that he wouldn’t be there to enjoy or help raise, he wanted to be an active and involved father and his work wouldn’t allow him. But Zayn promised a time would come when he would have more free liberty with his company and they would be able to start a beautiful family, but sadly that time never came.  

And now, in the midst of his thirties, happily remarried, living in a comfortable and welcoming family neighborhood, Louis can only think of finally having a baby. They always wanted a family of their own. He and Harry would talk about their prospective family all the time when they were younger, but now as the prospect is shifting into a very possible and idealistic concept, Harry seems to be holding back.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” Louis questions gently, standing before Harry in their kitchen, one hand holding his morning tea. “Is it something I said? Did I do something?”

Harry doesn’t say anything with his mouth, but his eyes say enough. Louis has come to recognize the silent words that flow from Harry’s expressive eyes. Harry doesn’t have to say anything for Louis to know something isn’t right with him. Louis just hopes he can diffuse the bomb before it detonates.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me, love. You know that…just talk to me.” Louis encourages, touching a reassuring hand to Harry’s waist. He places his steaming mug down on the countertop and turns his full attention to his husband.

Harry sighs gravely, forcing himself to meet Louis’ eyes. “It’s just…us…having kids…”  He drops off, leaving his sentence open ended.

“What about it?” Louis asks softly, tilting his head. “You’ve always adored kids.”

“Yeah…I know, I did… _before_ …but…” Once again, Harry trails off, allowing his voice to die slowly as he tears his gaze from Louis in favor of looking at his bare feet.

“But what, babe?” Louis runs his hands along the sides of Harry’s waist tenderly, trying to comfort and reassure him.

“What if I can't really care about them, Louis?” Harry rushes out all at once, meeting Louis’ eyes once again, but this time his eyes are even more clouded and anxious, an especially rare storm brewing in his mind.

“Don’t say that, Harry.” Louis responds, shaking his head as if it’s such a preposterous concept.

“But what if I can't?” Harry asks seriously, tone increasingly conflicted.

“Why can’t you, baby?” Louis questions, trying so hard to understand where Harry is coming from.

“Because I…I mean…I…” Harry tumbles over his own words, sounding frustrated with himself. “I’m just not…I can’t…I can’t _love_.”

Louis frowns, uncertain what Harry means by his words. “That's not true. You are capable of love, and you’re so much better, babe. You’ve come so far and I’m so, so proud of you.”

“Yeah ok…I’m ‘better’.” Harry finger quotes the word bitterly, stepping away from Louis’ affectionate hold on him. “But I’m still broken, Louis! I’m still dark, I’m still a mess, I’m still fucked up and I’m still a shitty shell of a person!”

“Harry, where is this coming from? You know that’s not true.” Louis defends, trying to keep his own voice level as Harry’s grows in volume. He reaches out to touch Harry again, to try and calm him down before he takes it too far. “Don’t say that about yourself.”

“It is true, Louis! It fucking is!” Harry throws his arms up exasperatedly, pushing Louis away again. “I know we don’t talk about it anymore and we ignore the past because I’m supposed to be ‘better’ or whatever but…shit! The simple fact is that I am and always will be a fucking basket case! I’m utterly screwed up! I’m not a good person!”

“Harry, please…” Louis tries again, fighting to keep himself together as Harry shouts angrily in his face. It’s been so long since Harry relapsed or brought up the past in hostility, so long since they had a truly bad day, a dreadful day. Nothing has sparked him like this in years, and now that he’s started, it’s like Harry is on a roll, no hope in stopping him at this point.

“I've fucking killed people, Louis! I am a _murderer!”_ Harry screams blindly, as some kind of all powerful rage consumes consumes his temperament. “I have killed real people, with real lives and I’ve watched people be killed! I’ve watched people die and suffer! I’ve seen things that can never be unseen! Horrifying things, live damaging, repulsive things! When I close my eyes, I see their faces and if I sit in silence for even a second too long, I hear their screams and it haunts me! It fucking haunts me to this day!”

Louis feels as though they’ve only been taking steps forward, positive steps. Leaps and bounds and glorious strides, but this feels like a momentous and uncalled for step backwards and he doesn’t know what to do to stop it. “I know that and-”

“I have fucking scars, Louis!” Harry roars raucously, careless interrupting Louis rudely, seeming unable to stop himself, as if it’s out of his control. “Not just the ugly physical ones littering my entire body, but mental scars! Emotional scars! All the fucking scars! They will always be there! None of that will ever change! It can’t be erased! You can’t just wish it better! The shit I’ve seen and the shit I’ve done only adds to the shit I _am_!”

“Stop Harry! Stop yelling at me!” Louis shouts back suddenly before he can bite his tongue any longer. He doesn’t like to yell back at Harry, or raise his voice because it usually doesn’t help the situation, but this time he just couldn’t help it. Harry hasn’t so much as slightly raised his voice at Louis in the recent years since they’ve been together and even still he has never yelled at him like this, with so much pent up aggression. “I didn’t mean to upset you…I mean…just forget it…”

“Oh my god.” Harry shakily exhales, looking as though he is suddenly alarmed by his own outburst, snapping back to reality. “I’m sorry Lou…I’m so sorry.” His face softens incredibly, eyes blinking in shock as he shakes his head in sincere apology, hands trembling. “I didn’t mean to… I…I’m sorry, my love.”  Harry wastes no time in pulling Louis against his body, holding him close as if he’s afraid to lose him, arms clenched tightly around his frame as if he might suddenly fade away. He buries his face in Louis’ neck, breathing him in self-soothingly. “I’m _sorry_...”

Louis stands still at first, arms at his sides, allowing Harry to fully encompass his smaller body in an airtight squeeze.

“Don’t be mad at me.” Harry’s weak voice breaks sadly and Louis can hear the choked sob caught at the back of his throat as if Harry is really struggling to keep his emotions at bay. “Please, don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not, baby, I’m not. I promise.” Louis whispers, slowly lifting his arms to encircle Harry fully.

“I don’t know where that came from…I’m sorry.” Harry stammers quietly, a slight tremor jolting though his body. “I’m trying…I’m really trying, Lou. I swear I am…I am…”

“I know, it’s ok, love. You’re ok.” Louis mumbles gently against Harry’s shoulder, rubbing his back tenderly. “Just…if you don’t want kids, we won’t have kids, it’s ok.”

“It’s not that I don’t want them, I do…” Harry sniffles softly, eyes closed against Louis’ skin. “It’s just that…there is no way that I’ll be a good father.”

Louis shakes his head in protest, still tracing soothing patterns along Harry’s back. “I think you’ll be a wonderful father.”

“But I can't feel anything Louis, it's so hard. I just...I can’t…” Harry tries despondently. Louis catches the sad inflection in Harry’s tone, the tears he repeatedly swallows, the emotion he keeps locked away. Harry is always holding things back, he is always trying to hide little pieces of himself away from Louis. Maybe he does it to protect Louis, maybe he doesn’t want him to think differently of him, but ever since they got married Harry has repeatedly stifled himself and Louis has never understood why.

Louis pulls back from Harry slightly, cupping his face gently in his hands and lightly forcing Harry to meet his eyes. He affectionately caresses his thumbs over Harry’s soft skin, wiping a stray tear away, searching his stormy eyes. “Do you love me?”

“Yes, of course I love you.” Harry answers without any hesitation or doubt, misty gaze completely sincere.

“So, by loving me, you’re allowing yourself to feel.” Louis points out gently. “You can’t love me and not feel anything.”

“But I’ve always loved you, Lou. My whole life.”  Harry counters, eyes so painfully expressive that they almost hurt to look at. “What if…what if I can't ever love anything new, or anyone new? I could hurt them…or I could…I…”

“Yes, you can babe, yes you can.” Louis insists, holding Harry’s face between his hands. “I know you can, you’re capable of love and so much more. You have feelings Harry, not just for me, for life as a whole…for _you_. You aren’t a shell and you aren’t empty or dead inside. You are a good man, and I don’t like to hear you talk so negatively about yourself.”

Harry lowers his head to the floor, Louis’ fingers still caressing his cheeks. Somehow Harry always has this way of making himself appear so small and lost, rescinding drastically within himself to unrecognizable levels.

“I know you sometimes tend to question my love for you because of how you see yourself…as this horrible unlovable monster…” Louis gently tilts Harry’s head back up again, meeting his eyes with a sincere warmth. “But I wish you could see yourself how I _really_ see you.”

Harry searches Louis’ eyes for several long, drawn out moments. And Louis’ heart breaks for the first time in so long as he witnesses his husband drowning within himself. Louis can see Harry trying to fight back the unanswered question in his eyes, while also needing so desperately to ask it, looking fearful of the answer. Louis’ heart can only break at the thought of Harry being so dreadfully afraid of how he imagines Louis’ sees him.

“How do you see me?” Harry whispers, terribly quiet under his breath, finally weakly pushing the question out into the open.

Louis inclines his head, eyes softened and emotive as he tenderly traces the curves of Harry’s face. “Well…when I look at you, I see someone who’s amazingly brave. Someone who is fearless and courageous. Someone who has been through so much and experienced things so unfair and ugly, but is still so very beautiful and inspiring.”

“I see someone who never, ever stops trying. You try so hard, baby…you really do. I see you try with everything that’s in you.” Louis continues in the softest of voices, fingers still silently worshipping Harry’s skin. “I see someone gentle and thoughtful, always carefully considering everyone else before yourself. And you care so much that you’re willing to sacrifice yourself in an instant for what you love.”

Harry stays silent, gazing at Louis on a held, cautious breath, still so far retracted and removed.

“And it's ok that you've made mistakes and it's ok if you keep making mistakes, if you mess up sometimes or break down or can’t keep it all together. You aren't perfect and neither am I. We can make mistakes together, we can fuck up and screw up together. You aren't alone, Harry, and you don't have to be strong for me all the time.” Louis comforts, resting his palm against Harry’s cheek. “The past is ugly, really ugly and it’s upsetting and I fucking hate it…but it _happened_. All of it happened and it’s real and it affected you like it affects me and we have to live with all of it somehow.”

“If you want to talk about it, we can talk about it. Every single day if you need to.  And If you need to cry, then _cry_. I'll cry with you, baby…” Louis vows, tears flowing from his eyes expressively as his voice breaks. “I will cry with you and hold you through it all. Whatever you need from me…I’m here for you. You aren’t alone. You don’t have to ever hide any part of yourself from me.”

Louis watches on as the mighty tears Harry has been holding back slowly glide down his cheeks, pouring from the cracks of his ever-breaking face.

“Harry, I married you, all of you. The ugly parts, the good parts, the bad parts… _you_.” Louis whispers, cradling Harry’s head. “I knew who you were before and I loved you then. And I know who are now and I love you still. You don’t have to hold back or try to fit a mold you think I want. I just want you.”

“I vowed that I'd find you and stand by you and remind you every day how much I love you even on the the bad days, even when you push me away and…I do.” Louis affirms, a new rush of watered emotion waving over him as it, in turn, waves over Harry. “I love you so much Harry…so so much…and I want nothing more than to start a family with you. But I will never force you and I don’t ever want to push your limits if you’re not ready.”

Louis sniffles against his ruddy nose. “And if you think you can’t handle it and you think you aren’t ready that’s fine and I understand. But don’t let the reason you don’t want kids be rooted in things you’ve forced yourself to believe is true. In damaging things that have no foundation or validity, but you’ve somehow wrongly accepted as reality.”

“I’m not lying when I tell you that I love you and I promise I will love you even if our family only consists of the two of us. You are all the family I need.” Louis promises wholeheartedly, voice at a whisper. “Just _you_.”

Harry closes the small space between them abruptly, once again burrowing his face against Louis’ shoulder. Louis holds him as he cries, weeping along with his husband while whispering soft and fervent “I love you’s” against his hair. Harry cocoons himself around Louis, embracing him with unmovable strength and devotion.

Louis doesn’t think Harry will really say anything for awhile, he doesn’t expect him to and he also doesn’t need him to, Louis only wanted Harry to listen to him and understand him.

But then, so faint and so small, easily mistaken and greatly excusable...Louis _hears_ it. Not a phrase he would have anticipated to hear, but thinking about it, the expression makes so much sense coming from Harry; a step towards acceptance.

“Thank you, Lou.”

 

* * *

 

Ava is beautiful.

Probably, the most beautiful and pure thing Louis has ever had the pleasure of looking at. Her skin is chaste and undefiled, soft and smooth. Her face is a beacon of hope and coveted promise. Her existence is almost but a dream, an aspiration and ideal that feels too good to possible be true. She’s theirs. All theirs. Their chance, their gift, their miracle.

Ava is truly beautiful.

And Harry _loves_ her, he absolutely adores her. Louis can see it in the way he gently holds her against his chest, cradling her tiny form in his strong, protective arms. He can see it in the way Harry is nothing but sweet and soft with her, treating her as if she is the most valued and rare treasure in all the world. Louis can see it in the way Harry smiles around her, a genuine full smile, bright and unabashed. Ava inspires a light in Harry’s eyes like no other, a light Harry undoubtedly believed would never return. But in actuality, Harry possesses a paternal tenderness, a fatherly love that can not be faked or bought, only given and earned.

Although, admittedly, Harry was so anxious at first. Deathly afraid of holding Ava or even touching her for fear of accidentally hurting her. He even freaked out before she was born, raving on about making sure her nursery was utterly perfect before she arrived, only proving once again how much he really cares. Harry’s fears were completely irrational, wildly unjustified and he soon worked through them with Louis’ constant unceasing reassurances, now essentially inseparable from Ava.

Harry says that she is the spitting image of Louis, distinct bright blue eyes and soft caramel hair sprouting from her head, tiny little freckles decorating her rosy cheeks. He claims that he can't help but love her because of how much she reminds him of Louis.

But Louis knows that isn't true, Harry loves Ava on his own, as his own daughter. Harry doesn't want to completely admit that he is capable of warmth and compassion and gentleness but he _is_ , he really is and it's simply amazing to witness him transform and the genuine happiness recolor his once drained skin.

She may be biologically Louis', but she is undoubtedly drawn to Harry, same as Louis always was, as if his strong pull towards Harry was passed genetically through his bloodline. Ava gravitates to him, always content in his loving arms, cerulean eyes lighting up animatedly whenever she sees him or even so much as hears his deep voice.

Ava helps Harry. Helps the last traces of hardened bitterness and stone cold ice leave his heart. She helps him redefine how he sees himself, come to understand who he is again and identify the tremendous roles he truly plays as a husband and as a father.

With a name meaning _life_ , Ava is so rightfully named as she brings back the last drifting pieces of life to Harry and Louis’ remaining existence. She alights their days with untainted joyfulness and pure contentment. They may have had a family in each other, but with Ava, not only does their family feel more complete and whole, but so does their entire life.

“She sleeps like you.” Harry observes in whispered awe. Ava rests peacefully between their reclined bodies on their bed, sleeping head facing Harry as he studies her contently.

“Mmm, does she?” Louis hums, looking at their quiet, relaxed baby girl. 

“Yes.” Harry confirms decisively, peaking up at Louis. “She does that thing were she wiggles her nose and then she kinda shakes herself out in weird stretch and then curls back up to herself before this sleepy calm falls over her eyes.” He explains informatively with a doting smile. “Just like you do.”

“I do all that?” Louis giggles, staring at Harry with fond amusement in his eyes.

“Every time.” Harry grins knowingly, lifting one of Louis’ hands and pressing a soft kiss to his palm.

“So you admit to watching me sleep?” Louis raises a curious eyebrow, lips quirked.

“Guilty.” Harry murmurs shamelessly against Louis’ skin, continuing to kiss a small trail up the length of Louis’ arm. “And I not only admit to watching you, I admit to thinking it’s unbelievably cute.”

Louis laughs affectionately, pressing his face against his fluffed pillow. Harry giggles along with him, deep dimples eating at his flushed cheeks.

“I think this is it.” Harry whispers, after their laughter has ceased and the room has fallen still and serene.

“What is it?” Louis questions, blinking inquisitively.

“It's what everyone always aspires to achieve at some point…what you always wish to have but somehow seem to fall short most times...” Harry rambles on without actually answering the question. “What people spend their whole life chasing after…”

“What is?” Louis props his head up with one of his elbows, eyeing Harry curiously. 

“We have it...” Harry continues vaguely. “Right here…right now…”

“We have what?” Louis urges again, furrowing his brow with a lack of understanding.  

_“Happiness.”_ Harry answers conclusively, a heartfelt and content pleasantness to his relaxed features.

Louis’ eyes warm even more, small smile growing on his face as he reaches across the sleeping baby between them to caress Harry’s cheek affectionately. “You’re happy?”

Harry stares down at Ava, looking at their infant daughter lovingly, rubbing her small back carefully. With his head still rested on his pillow, Harry lifts his gaze back to Louis, covering his own hand over Louis’ on his cheek.

“Yes...” Harry answers softly, nodding his head meaningfully slow. “And I don’t want to forget…I don’t want to _ever_ forget.”

“Forget what, babe?” Louis asks, leaning in a little closer.

“Anything.” Harry announces. “I spent so much time wanting to forget and never remember the past, wanting to erase it all and turn back time...but…it’s because of the past that I’m here. That I’m here right now, in this exact moment in time, With you…with both of you. And it’s because of the past that I can truly appreciate and value what that means.” Harry gazes at Louis with eyes only laced with sincerity and recognition. “I don’t want to forget.”

Louis leans even closer, sealing their lips together in an impassioned, meaningful kiss.  “I love you, Harry.”

“I know you do.” Harry whispers breathlessly against Louis’ lips. “And I love you and I love our daughter…with everything. I love our family.”

Louis stares deeply into Harry’s genuine eyes and he finally sees the complete understanding, the acceptance and the contentedness. Harry knows he is loved and not only that, he knows what it means to love. To be able to receive it and to be able to give it in return.

Harry delicately traces his fingertips along Louis’ temple and down his face in unhurried reverences, leisure venerations. “Are you happy, my love?”

Happiness is fluid, Louis has come to understand. He has felt happiness in many forms through many avenues, though different places and moments in time. His joy has been stolen and replenished, his heart has had the opportunity to love and dwell in more than one soul. And although heartache cast gloomy shadows over his life, he was always loved and he’ll always be loved. He will always remember the love he was privileged to experience, past or present, this life or the next.

“I am happy, yeah...” Louis nods softly, wholeheartedly accepting it to be true. “I’m happy because I’m living…and I am living with you and I know that you’ll be with me… _Always.”_

 

* * *

 

_“There is neither happiness nor unhappiness in this world; there is only the comparison of one state with another. Only a man who has felt ultimate despair is capable of feeling ultimate bliss._ _It is necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live. The sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope.”_

_Alexandre Dumas - The Count of Monte Cristo_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok...now go read The Count of Monte Cristo :) its a billion pages long but its so so worth it...or at least watch the movie, do it for meeeeeeee PLEASE lol and then tell me what you think.  
> Anyways i hope you enjoyed this little testament to my all time favorite work, i did my best to make it my own and honestly I've never cried so much while writing haha  
> Thanks again for reading loves! :))


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